The Sadism of Eros
by K0USAGI
Summary: Reaver has all the lovers and admirers one could ask for. When he is spurned by the good Queen, something new and painful grows within him that he cannot make sense of. Oh, Eros! How could you be so cruel? Ch. 07/15. Lemony content warning.
1. Eros Usurper

01.

"Ah! Ooh, Master Reaver! Please!"

With every movement, she gasped and her rose lips parted just long enough for him to steal a deeper taste of her soft tongue.

"Patience, my pet..." Reaver only gave the maid a devilish smirk, forcing her even harder against the wall. He loved to hear his name followed by a plea for release, but he took even greature pleasure in denying that feverish wish.

The maid gripped part of the tall curtain that concealed them in one of Bowerstone castle's grand corridors. With her other arm she held on to him as though for dear life, letting her body undulate with his lustful rhythm. He felt her grip tighten and loosen, then clutch even harder once more—and not just on the back of his coat. Reaver drank in her cries and her sighs, her whispers of his name and her stifled moans. Nothing could be sweeter at that moment than the rosy cheeked woman whose name he had already forgotten.

As she begged him for more, a whiny-voiced irritant caught his attention.

"Master Reaver?"

The maid gave a squeak of humiliation as a man in a white and gray coat and a white top-hat appearred at the end of the hall.

"Wait, love, not yet, ah—" Reaver spoke fast, but not fast enough as her once tightly-locked thighs left his hips and she scurried away adjusting her skirt and fanning her flushed face with her hand.

Reaver groaned, rebuttoning his pants as Jeffrey approached.

"O-oh, well... I, ah... I do apologize, Master Reaver, I did not know—"

Reaver poked his head out from behind the long, midnight blue curtain and forced a smile. A very annoyed smile.

"Yes, yes, what is it Jeffrey?"

"Sir, well, ah, erm,"

"Get on with it, I'm losing my patience."

Jeffrey looked around for a moment before whispering, "The Queen's meeting started thirty minutes ago..."

The Queen's meeting, in the Throne Room damn near across the castle, Reaver recalled. He _had_ lost track of the time.

Jeffrey eyed the curtain and then forced a half-laugh and a smile, "Ah, well, come on out now, Master Reaver, I will accompany you to the throne—"

A deafening gunshot and a small explosion through the curtain was the last thing Jeffrey would see before Reaver sighed and stepped out into the hall, his clothes adjusted and his hair perfect once more.

"I know the way, thank you." Reaver replied, stepping over his associate's squirming, gurgling body.

"My, what a mess you've made. Be sure to have it cleaned up on your way out. It is rude to leave bloodstains on your host's carpet." Reaver said, making his way to the ornate, mahogany double-doors, "Tatty-bye!"

Despite the dark blue decor of the palace, the place was always a tad too bright for comfort. Perhaps it was a lingering effect of the liquors and wines from his own private party the night before. Perhaps it was simply the irritating fact that the Queen wanted every damned window in the castle to let in as much of the sun as possible.

For that, he often loathed coming to Bowerstone Castle after Logan's fall from power. The former king had preferred a much cozier, darker abode that made those wonderful industry meetings more welcoming.

The Queen rarely held a warm welcome for Reaver.

He entered the Throne Room with a wide smile as white as his coat and tapped his cane to alert his audience that the man of the hour had arrived.

"Ah, pardon my tardiness, Your Highness. But your dear Reaver has arrived."

The associates turned to him with worried and confused faces. His business opponent for the afternoon, Page, turned to him from her place before the Queen and glared with icy blue eyes. The foul-smelling commonfolk of Bowerstone that accompanied Page cast him glances full of as much distaste as he held for them. Finally, the Queen eyed him from across the room, seated in her grand throne with a cherry sweet look of annoyance on her soft features.

"You were hardly missed." The Queen spoke with a mix of calm and restrained spite, "We actually began the session without you. Although I'm sure you've read the documentation beforehand and as such, you have missed nothing that you are not already full aware of."

Reaver now stood adjacent to Page, folding both hands over his cane and giving his best charms, "...and I trust the good Mr. Carmine has given our company's testimony in my stead?"

"With all the silver tongue I would expect from one of your cohorts." Page answered. Reaver knew she only held her hands behind her back to exercise calm. Oh, how he could so easily infuriate the common folk's brave beauty!

"She is right," the Queen nodded, "However, if you feel that there is something you would like to add, then by all means, I will give you a chance to speak, should you provide us with more details regarding the lake site. Otherwise, Page, you may continue."

"Yes, your Majesty." Page nodded and then continued where she left off, "The people of Bowerstone deeply treasure the lake—it is a part of our souls! To drain it and have Reaver change it into a quarry would be akin to draining a part of our history for profit. Please, we can only implore that you think about this decision and what it will mean for the people who have grown up with this icon of Bowerstone's glory."

Page had a magnificent way of swaying the people—their cries and cheers roared behind her as she finished a much longer spiel that Reaver had been too lost in his own world to catch but the tail-end of.

The Queen then turned to Reaver. He caught a sideways glance from Sir Walter Beck—a look of disapproval and annoyance.

"Is there anything you would like to add?" She asked.

Reaver had made his case for the transformation of Bowerstone Lake into a very lucrative rock quarry. The odds were in his favor, he recalled with a smirk; the kingdom's treasury was hurting at a terrible 700,000 gold deficit and to follow through with the quarry would close that deficit to a much smaller 200,000.

The Queen sat in her throne, hunched over in her usual look of deep consideration. She had never been effeminate by any means, despite a cherubic face and enchanting proportions. In her blue and gold prince's uniform and her hair pulled back into a shoulder-length braid, she often resembled a teenage boy in her gestures and mannerisms—it was puzzling to him that he found it so fetching.

Her decisions were hardly predictable—at any moment the whimsical woman could take a harsh blow to the treasury to retain trivial promises to the people of Albion or she could turn an orphanage into Albion's first brothel. He had seen her do it all—she was neither as pure of heart as popular opinion claimed nor was she was cruel as the former king, her elder brother Logan.

With a well-chewed nail between her lips, the Queen looked to Page and Reaver. With a particularly gentle gaze upon Page, the Queen declared, "We pass on the rock quarry. Bowerstone Lake shall remain as it is."

While some of the executives of his corporation groaned behind him, the overwhelming cheers of Bowerstone's residents brought a smile to Page's face. Reaver held no grudge against the Queen for any of her decisions—either way, he faced little to no repercussion for any of the Queen's decisions. She may not have been as 'fun' as Logan, but Reaver prided himself on his own optimism and was quick to find a pro to every con.

"As you wish, your highness, I will see to it that Reaver Industries preserves the landmark. I suppose I would rather have a lake in my front yard than a rock quarry." Reaver shrugged and then added, "How could I possibly have thought to enjoy sleeping with that racket?"

"Our session is adjourned for today," the Queen spoke, rising from her seat.

Reaver sucked in air through his teeth and looked down at his hands folded over the head of his cane. When he sent a vary placid look in Mr. Carmine's plump and sweaty-faced direction, he took pleasure in the way the man trembled. As Reaver drummed his fingertips, Mr. Carmine was left just feet away, looking petrified as the other associates filtered out of the room.

"I will give you a head start, Mr. Carmine."

The fiery-haired man nodded and whimpered before bursting into a breakneck dash out of the Throne Room.

Reaver watched the Queen step down as her pleased constituents slowly left. On any other day, he would have followed his associates the same, yet there was always a reason to stay just a second longer when Page came to petition the Queen.

The Queen pulled Page into her arms and the two laughed and locked eyes like a pair of lovelorn adolescents. Page was known for her seriousness and often abrasive nature, yet she smiled and giggled and even Walter gave a warm chuckle as he passed the two and patted the Queen on the back. There was an air of love between the two that was hardly a secret to be scorned, yet it went largely unknown amongst the Queen's followers.

Should the Queen ever settle down and tie herself, oh so miserably, down with those iron shackles of marriage, Reaver knew it would be to Page. It was evident in their gazes, their caresses, and most blatantly, in the soft kisses shared by even softer lips.

Wesley nudged Reaver with a fat elbow and gave an amused grunt, gesturing at the romancing women without a semblance of subtlety.

"Yes, Wesley. I am aware that they are lovers." Reaver sighed.

Wesley shrugged and continued to leave with the rest of the industry associates, "Just thought you'd enjoy the sight of a natural treasure."

"But of course, I am all for preserving the lake. Such is the Queen's ruling." Reaver replied.

"Say," Wesley said as Reaver joined him, "…you don't believe the Queen may only be sidin' with that Page because they're lovers, do you?"

"Now, Wesley, that is hardly sportsmanly of you to imply." Reaver replied, "You have been witness to the her own free thought and decisions regardless of her lover's interests. She makes decisions for the kingdom—her duties as a lover are second to that. I must say, it is rather commendable. A feat that I may just possibly imply that I could not accomplish. Possibly."

There was a degree of bitterness to that sentiment. Not in the fact that she had a larger moral compass than he—oh, hardly! It was rather that there was growing evidence that no lover could sway the Queen in her rulings.

When Logan was ruler, Reaver knew that a strategic romance could sway him at the right times. Logan was a lonely man after all, and even the most ruthless gold diggers in Bowerstone were terrified of him. Back then, Reaver largely ignored the Princess at the time, as she crept into the gardens at night with her beloved Elliot. Yet she had always been a bit of a blessing to him. Should Logan ever meet an untimely end, the Princess would be the heir. In her hot blooded youth and naiveté, Elliot would stand no chance to Reaver in competition for the royal's hand. Reaver would then effectively have Bowerstone as his own personal playground. But with the collapse of Logan's reign, the separation of Elliot and the Queen, and the presence of one beautiful yet obstructive Page, none of it would be so.

It was almost a damned shame that the Princess had changed so very much over the course of her hero's journey. Yet as always, upon recalling the frizzy-haired brunette brat that stormed through the castle with her loyal dog nearby, he found it a bit difficult to see the Queen as, well, the _Queen_.

She knew this, and she knew it well.

"Ah, if it isn't the Princess and her loyal… dog." Reaver spoke, crossing paths in the garden with the Queen. He had made sure to look around for her fierce-eyed lover before adding that last bit—to his relief, Page was nowhere in sight.

He knew that the Queen had long since given up on correcting Reaver, but he could still enjoy the evident rise he siphoned out of her. When conversation was between just the two of them, she would always be the Princess.

"I could say the same of you." The Queen gave Wesley a nod of acknowledgement. Wesley was all too happy to accept this rare gift of recognition.

She continued on her path, possibly to take part in some kind of quest or promise made to a villager in Brightwall. She was, after all, one of the heroes of legend. Seeing her depart with her ornate sword and her loyal dog at her side reminded him of the days that he so blindly rushed into combat, so willing to assist others. Ah, that was a great many years ago—that was an era long before Bowerstone even had the customs and attempted culture it did today. Before pondering how long it would be before she, too, slipped into corruption as many heroes did, he was reminded of just how many years he had walked Albion. His vanity slapped the number away with slight irritation and told him, _"Don't remind yourself! You are youthful and you are beautiful!"_

"Sir?" Wesley said, catching Reaver off guard.

"Wesley, I must confess that watching the youthful new hero walk off into the sunset does indeed prick my heart with envy." Reaver sighed.

"Perhaps it's time to gather more sacrifices?" Wesley whispered.

Reaver shrugged, "Yes. You're right. Say, Wesley, you just turned thirty-one, yes?"

"Thirty, sir!" Wesley beamed. Despite his obesity, his associate did have quite the baby-face.

* * *

**~ Author's Note Time 2.0! Revision? Why, yes. Yes, it is. ~**

To those of you who enjoyed the original version of the first chapter, please forgive me for changing it up and omitting Reaver's long monologue! Something about the first chapter bugged me and as I read it, I realized that I was _telling_ the reader what they already knew. So why not just _show_ them? Reaver's a man slut and that is better seen than heard about, right? ;) I promise I'll make use of his insights in future chapters! That _is_ an important part of the plot!

Don't worry about any further revisions. Chapter two turned out just as I wanted it. 3

**~ Original Author's Note ~**

Reaver... I have such mixed feelings about the character. I love the bastard, but I hate him at the same time. I think the only other character to incite that reaction from me was Humbert Humbert from Lolita. If given the option, I would have sooner courted Page with my tomboyish Princess, but I'm sure that sooner or later, I would have sent my poor Princess off after Reaver...

So I'm just going to go ahead and leave this fic riiiiiight here for ya'll. Yeah. It will all be from Reaver's perspective as he tries his darndest to romance a Queen that, well, thinks he's an asshole. And a manslut. But primarily an asshole. How would that work? The chapters will tell, I suppose. This is my first fanfiction venture into the world of Fable, so please mind any minor inconsistencies with the game (like the fact that in this fic, the Bowerstone Brothel came before the Bowerstone Lake/Quarry propositions... I'm pretty sure it was the other way around in the game, but hey, for fic's sake!) I try to keep things in vein with the games! I really do! ^_^*

I should probably also note that like the games, I won't name the Queen. She's called "the Queen" or "the Princess" to some. She does have a name and few know it, but I'll leave that up to the reader's imagination.

That said, enjoy, you guys! I'm always open to constructive criticisms and making my writing better for myself and everyone. So don't be afraid to point out things in your reviews. I'm not sensitive. ;)

Love,  
K0USAGI

_Obligatory Disclaimer: Don't own anything Fable related... I'm just writing a fanfic for fun._


	2. Fight or Flight

02.

Despite a heavy shower the night before, the sun was far brighter than it needed to be on that late summer day. The accursed hot season was by far his least favorite; it made wearing his favorite white suit a bit of a nuisance from the heat and the summer sun was utterly terrible for the skin. With thick black goggles fastened over his eyes, he stepped out of the carriage, cane in hand, ready to survey the area.

"Lovely weather today, eh, Master Reaver?" The driver spoke as a skinny, clumsy servant hopped down from beside him.

"Hardly." Reaver's response was curt. If he did not need that driver to take he and his carriage home later on, he would have knocked him clear off his seat with a few well-placed bullets. His head throbbed from the consumption of one too many sweet poisons the night before.

Mistpeak was a magnificent mountain range, many said. He found it to be quite the bore, having seen far greater mounds on a whore in Aurora. Yet there was something special waiting at the base of the mountain, not far north from Driftwood.

There were two and only two very specific reasons for him even dragging himself away from a bed full of very voracious women (and one James, he could not forget James!) One was the fact that Wesley's replacement, Nicholas, had informed him of a troublesome pack of balverines that were dead set on making the new excavation site in the Silvercaves a war zone and the second was that he had not been the only one summoned to fend off the beasts. It seemed that no riches nor plump, fleshy sacrifices were enough to satiate this particular pack.

Reaver had initially given Nicholas the order to,_ "Throw a lazy miner or two their way and see if they don't wander off with their meal,"_ but that proved to solve little. If the balverines were not willing to bargain, then he would have to offer another sacrifice in the form of pure silver bullets, hot from a barrel that was itching to be used.

He crossed the grassy, muddy distance between the road and the foreman's cabin, not far from the entrance to the mining site. Miners were sure not to cross his path, remembering the last time one unfortunate bastard had done so. One of his servants accompanied him—freckle-faced and handsome, slender, William with the twisting tongue. Reaver took amusement in the worry and beads of sweat that had formed on William's brow as he made certain not to let Reaver walk himself into a soft pool of muddy soil and tarnish his boots.

"S-Sir, I-I-I wouldn't step there," William uttered, pointing out a soft spot before Reaver's left foot.

Reaver avoided the spot, nudging the smaller William without concern or even acknowledgment. William was shoved over a short, wooden fence and scrambled to his feet to catch up with his sneering master.

"Oh, William, I do hope you don't let me step in any balverine droppings. You remember the last time Dawson let me stumble into that, don't you?"

"Y-y-yes, Sir, there are no d-droppings anywhere, Sir!"

"Oh, William, do be a good lad and get the door for me." Reaver sighed, letting William rush ahead of him as he removed the goggles from his eyes.

William opened the door, pushing it instinctively before realizing that it was locked. An amusing tidal wave of panic crashed over William's face as he began to knock furiously.

"A-ah, Foreman Carter! F-Foreman Carter, Master Reaver is here to, to see you!"

"I'm coming, sweet William," Reaver called, adding a flirtacious sigh to his voice as he approached the three wooden steps leading to the foreman's splintering shack.

William nodded and smiled before knocking once again. The boy visibly quivered when Reaver took his first steady but sure steps onto the stairs and said once again, in a teasing moan, "Oh, William, I'm coming... do have that door open, or I might just be upset."

"Yes? Hello!" Carter's voice broke the tense air as he unlocked and opened the door for Reaver.

Reaver nodded and flashed Carter a quick grin. He passed a sighing William who looked as though he had just experienced a close brush with death—he had, actually, Reaver noted with an inward laugh.

The inside of Carter's shack was far larger than the exterior let on—a large, solid pine desk with four matching chairs, a small kitchen area, and a rather long, descending passage into what looked like resting quarters for a number of the miners. Maps and papers were strewn across the table, rife with geological information that Reaver cared little about. Reaver eyed every corner with the subtle hope that he might spy the Queen already there. But she was as fashionably late as ever, he noted with disappointment.

"Well, bother, it seems I have... _come_ before the Queen." Reaver sighed, drawing his pistol. Carter took cover behind a chair and William released a veritable squeal when Reaver took aim and pulled the trigger. The window beside him shattered and all of Reaver, William, and Carter heard an unfortunate miner scream and hit the earth before Reaver replaced the gun in it's comfortable holster on his thigh.

"I suppose she should get used to that," Reaver smirked, turning back to Carter and a trembling William, "Isn't that right, my boys?"

Carter feigned a smile and nodded and William shook his head in wild agreement.

"William, that's so rude," Reaver said, reaching for his gun again, "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, _'Ladies first'_?"

Before William could let out a second scream, the Queen threw open the door (effectively crushing poor William between the door and the wall) and announced her presence, "Sorry for the wait, I'm here!"

Reaver held open his arms as if she would accept an embrace from him and welcomed her with a jovial laugh, "Ah, my sweet Princess, I could have waited centuries for you! In fact, it feels like I already have!"

The Queen put a hand on her hip and retorted, "I can always rely on my loyal mutt, can't I?"

"Oh, yes, did you bring your furry companion?"

"Follows me everywhere."

"How lovely, do send her my greetings. Tell her I thought she looked lovely giving that speech the other afternoon."

"Well, I've grown bored bantering with an ass. Go fetch yourself some feed and let us handle the balverine problem." The Queen shrugged, taking a seat at the table at which Carter was clearing and arranging a very specific map of the vicinity. She cast Carter a warm and welcoming smile and he bowed.

"Oh, don't bow! Please!" The Queen laughed, "Now do share details of this problem. What areas have been hit hardest by the balverine attacks and we can focus a counter-attack from there."

"It seems to be random every time, Your Majesty," Carter explained, watching Reaver take a seat with nervous eyes, "...it seems the only constant has been the south west area, straight from the wood works, but they truly do come from every direction."

Reaver watched the Queen purse her pink lips in thought. She brought up a nail and as she began to chew it, he wondered if she was even aware of her actions or if her nail was even clean. A smudge of dried dirt on her left cheekbone made him doubt that—the Queen had obviously been delayed by some form of rough housing along the way. But that was the Queen they all knew. A rather uncouth roughian of a girl. Oh, how much cuter she could be if she would show up for work a bit more bathed and a bit less rugged!

"I can await their appearance at the south west quarter." The Queen said, her words somewhat muffled by the nail she chewed. Reaver listened to the soft breaths she exhaled through her doll-like nostrils and let the thought of all kinds of Queenly sighs and breaths make chills along his body. Such sounds he could hope to glean from her slender, Reaver-pleasured body!

"_Ah,_" The Queen sighed, shaking her head, causing Reaver's thoughts to take an even naughtier twist, "...Carter, how many armed men could you fit at the entrance with?"

"We're rather short on ammunitions, I could only say about two or three if we hope to spread them across equal ground."

"Yes... I'd like two men at the entrance, then." Reaver swallowed as he watched the Queen's opalescent neck. She nodded and confirmed this, her voice sounding much sultrier in his head, "I can handle any force head-on. I will take down as many as I can. How many men can we post as sentries?"

"We had five last night, but we'll be down to three this evening, unfortunately."

The Queen clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disappointment, her face, in his mind, a needy pout, "Those poor souls... I wish them each a pleasurable after life. Then three at each remaining post tonight. I'll await the balverines close to the camp and Reaver and I will come down on them,"—she pounded her fist against the table, causing a more-than-distracted Reaver to jump a little and then chuckle—"with the force of an Auroran sun!"

With a sultry tilt of her head and the most innocent smile he had ever seen upon a woman's face, the Queen said, "You will come with me, won't you Reaver?"

"_Ah_! Ah, yes, yes of course!" Her words brought such a bittersweet ache to his loins!

"They won't stand a chance. We'll crush them!" Such a violent Queen! Reaver sighed and reached into his pocket for a sweet, clove cigarette.

"Thank you kindly for your assistance, Your Majesty. I and my men really cannot thank you enough."

Reaver sighed and added, exhaling smoke through his nostrils, "I can arrange to have more weapons and ammunition delivered within the hour."

The Queen swatted away smoke with a look of distaste on her soft features. Reaver grinned and chuckled, letting another wave of smoke cross his lips in her direction.

"How rude of me." Reaver said, offering her one from the gold cigarette holder in his palm.

Shaking her head and beginning to cough, the Queen cringed, "My god! It smells as though you crushed a whore and rolled her up into a little stick!"

Reaver laughed and nodded, "I could have that arranged if that is what you're into."

"You're sick."

"I'm not the sadist here."

"Like hell you aren't!" The Queen coughed again.

Reaver smiled and gazed absently toward the cieling, "Ah, yes. Yes, you're right."

* * *

Evening fell and it was far colder than any other summer night. Clouds had moved in once again, bring with them a cool, earthy breeze. Reaver sat upon a fence with both hands upon his decorative white cane (which he had managed not to tarnish with a drop of mud, with William's help) and yet another cigarette between his lips. He exhaled a mixture of warmth and smoke, watching it stretch and bend in the air like a bellydancer.

The Queen paced, wandering about the area on high alert and checking in with each sentry at every post. She had an air of calm and composure to the miners and to Carter, but Reaver could tell that she was far more a bundle of nerves than she let on. It brought a smile to his serene face.

He watched her long legs, cloaked in striped stockings, rise up to be covered by a pair of short, leathery mini shorts. It was quite the flattering ensemble, with every white stripe allowing for the appropriate shadows to caress her lithe, but defined muscles. He would not let her remove those blue and white striped stockings if he could ever manage to muzzle and tame the feral beauty!

"You should make an effort to appear less nervous." Reaver sighed, two silky veils of smoke escaping him as he spoke, "...your followers might pick up on it. Not a helpful trait for a _heroic leader_."

"For what reason should I be nervous?" The Queen retorted.

Reaver said nothing, opting instead to smirk and shake his head.

"I am calm. I faced far worse creatures in Aurora." The Queen gazed out past the black pines.

"Any beast can kill you if you let your guard down. It does not matter what manner of 'Hero' you may be." Reaver explained, eying a shimmering beetle that crossed the soil near his boot, "Your status as a figure of power and myth does not make you any less vulnerable."

"Why... Good god, Reaver!" The Queen exclaimed, "...that just might be the most insightful thing I've ever heard cross your lips! And not a mention of sex or alcohol!"

Rolling each 'r' along his tongue, Reaver said, "Drunken. Rear. Entry."

The Queen shook her head, "Ah, yes. There it is."

Clearing his throat he corrected himself, "_Reaver_ entry, actually."

"I have no doubts." The Queen sighed in an uninterested tone.

Reaver reached into his pocket, stifling his chuckle. He fumbled for the cigarette holder but pulled out a tiny flask instead. Strewn across it's lid was a small, red ribbon with lacy trim. He paused at the sight of it, before stuffing it back into his coat pocket without another glance.

The Queen stiffened and he looked up. When he saw her draw her sword, he began to sense the same livid, red aura that she could. Reaver stuffed the flask back into his coat, but not without a quick swig, and drew his gun. He neared the Queen, keeping close watch on her every blind spot.

He heard the shifting of tree branches and the low, salivating growls of three beasts to the west. He aimed in that direction, but as soon as his trigger finger was ready to pull, the growls were above them. The Queen's right hand began to shine and a numbing wave of static pulsed around them. Reaver made a semi-startled noise as the electric field crossed him with friendly gentleness.

"You'd best keep your distance. I'd rather not shock you by accident." The Queen warned as icicles and cold clouds began to gather overhead, "...or freeze you either."

"Don't mind me. I don't mind a good shock or two."

"Three coming at us, seven'o'clock!" A sentry cried before releasing a terrified scream and then a gurgling retch. Gunshots sounded all around them and the Queen rushed away from Reaver, taking her field of electical current with her—again, leaving Reaver with an amusing twitch as she forced him from her magic field.

The Queen disappeared into the woods and Reaver sought to follow. As the darkness consumed her, he cried, "Do save me a kill or two, now, Princess! Share your to—"

A black and gray beast of canine and humanoid mix lunged out of the same shadows, tackling Reaver with a deafening hiss. Reaver fired on it, landing a single shot between the beast's eyes. Yet that was hardly enough to stop it, and while it stumbled upon landing before him, it kept rushing with it's dripping incisors glistening in the moonlight.

He fired again, hearing the howls of more balverines rushing to the war zone. Miners were screaming and deafening gunshots rang out through the night. Reaver rushed in the direction of the Queen but was lead to an empty clearing.

"Princess?" Reaver cried, "My sweet?"

A small ball burst forth as bright as the sun, narrowly missing him as it dug into the chest of a lunging balverine. The Queen lept over a fence, rushing past Reaver with a feral, almost beastmanly cry. He stepped aside for her to plunge her blade into the paralyzed beast's thick body. Whether the blood staining her clothes was balverine or her own mattered nothing to her—Reaver only watched the Queen become a veritable war goddess, showing each abomination no mercy.

He did well to snipe any beasts that sought to attack her from behind, and they fell with demonic reluctance. He reloaded often and stayed close to his wild Queen.

"My word, you _are_ quite the valkyrie aren't you?"

"Shut up and fight!"

Reaver shrugged, his question more than answered, "As you wish, Astrilde."

Without warning, she took off once again. Reaver gave an annoyed groan trying to keep up with her as she returned to the camp. She leapt over the body of a man severed in half by the beasts' great claws and Reaver cringed at the scattered entrails. The Queen pulled her shotgun from it's holster on her back and opened fire on two balverines that were climbing a watch tower.

Carter rushed by them only once that night, firing at a pair of smaller balverines that were bickering over a screaming miner stuck between each pair of jaws by both one leg and one arm. It took four shots from Reaver's gun to down the beast that swallowed the man's now-severed arm and three to end the other, with the final, fourth shot dealt by Carter.

The dying man bled out and screamed as Carter knelt at his side.

"Thomas! Thomas, just hold on, I... I..." Carter was terrified and Reaver knew there was nothing that could be done but let the wounded miner bleed out or be balverine bait. Without order or second thought, he stepped beside Carter and put a bullet in the wailing man's head.

"What in god's name—!"

"He was a dead man, Carter. I suggest you get up before you wind up one yourself." Reaver said, reloading and taking his leave from the dead man's side. Carter uttered not another word, and Thomas would not be the last man to release blood curdling wails into the night.

The Queen watched it all with a glare, but Reaver recognized the look of understanding in her eyes. Even she knew that there were more important matters at hand. The Queen turned away from him and continued to swing and drive her blade into every unfortunate beast that crossed her path until her dirtied clothes were dyed crimson with balverine blood.

Morning could not have broken the pinnacles of the dark pines fast enough. No man had slept that night and when the cloudy sunrise came, the entrance to the mines were a bloodbath of both balverine corpses and miner alike. The Queen stood beside Carter, tired from the night of battle, wounded, but unwilling to confess her pain. Reaver would have easily bet money that they had killed every last balverine that had ever threatened the miners.

"What transpired tonight was some sort of war. Two tribes descended upon us at the very least." Carter's weary voice came.

Reaver watched the Queen's unwavering back, her dark braid dancing just slightly in the breeze. She said nothing. She clenched her fingers around the handle of her sword and lowered her head.

"...how many have we lost?"

Reaver had never once heard the Queen's voice crack until that moment.

Carter surveyed the area, hesitant to reply not out of the Queen's disappointment but out of his own heartache as well. Reaver eyed the area, counting at least twelve bodies and in his mind, bemoaned the fact that he had just lost a little over half of his crew. That would be twelve new workers he would have to dig up out of the industrial quarter to replace them.

The whimper Carter made caught his attention. The man was fighting back tears as he answered the Queen, "Fourteen. We lost fourteen."

"Damn it." The Queen dug her blade into the soil and hung her head even lower.


	3. Immature

03.

The clouds settled in over the sun and rain had begun to fall. Fourteen graves were dug by the remaining miners as well as the Queen. Had she not extended a hand, Reaver would have been content to step out of the rain and enjoy another cigarette and a stiff drink. But this Queen had fought beside the men who died as if they were the survivors of a war—and to an extent, they were.

Reaver placed his coat over the Queen's shoulders as she looked over the final grave, still holding a dirty shovel in her hands. Her stare was intense and the grave was unmarked.

"You're injured. You should get out of the mud and the rain lest you catch something." Reaver said.

The Queen continued to stare at the grave. Reaver looked down at the shovel in her hand—there were bloody fingerprints on the splintering wood. He sighed and reached for it, but she tossed it aside and lowered her head.

"I thought... I thought less men would die tonight."

Reaver, for a rare moment in his life, was at a loss for words. He had never been good at cheering up an emotional woman (or man, for that matter.) Carter passed them both with a tired, sullen look on his face. Reaver only then noticed the long, crimson gash extending from the foreman's chin to his ear that would forever remind him of that night. He was grateful that no beast had left a scratch upon his face—his life would have been utterly over!

"This... this was worse than the castle siege. Only several lives were lost then." The Queen was right about that. Her victory against Logan was a remarkable one of low casualties.

"So many died... if I cannot spare the lives of these men against the balverines, then how am I possibly going to save the lives of the people from that desert plague? That... that Crawler!"

"Now, now, dear, get a hold of yourself," Reaver sighed, pulling the ends of his coat around the Queen's arms and fastening the buttons. It sagged on her much smaller body, but the soft, black fur would warm her all the same. Above all, it was _his_ coat, and that enough was a notion that made many a maiden swoon and go weak in the knees.

"You... ah... you did the best you could. We were outmatched. Perhaps a bit short on ammunition and weaponry? I... I confess I could have sent the order for more."

"I cannot have this again, Reaver." The Queen looked up at him, her brown eyes ready to pool over with tears, "...the coming war will see less death. I swear it."

"It was only fourteen—"

The Queen stepped away from him, glaring, now. She worked to wrestle the coat off of her as she exclaimed, "_Only fourteen_? Are they all _numbers _to you, Reaver?"

"Of course not! Don't be silly," Reaver protested and scoured his mind for something to lessen her rage, rubbing his hands on her arms to try and calm her, "...they are fourteen new jobs to be filled by the impoverished of Bowerstone, of course!"

With a disgusted grunt the Queen pulled away from him, "Your jokes come at a bad time."

As she stormed away, Reaver muttered, "But ...but I was not joking. See the wine glass as half-full, my sweet!"

Carter and the Queen parted ways with words of gratitude and apology alike. Reaver overheard the Queen mourn the loss of Carter's friends and coworkers. Carter was in shambles as well, but he was determined not to let their deaths be in vain. When they left the foreman's ramshackle, blood stained little cabin, the Queen climbed up the roadside hill with a well-kept distance from Reaver.

All the while, he watched her, a miserable and dirty, bloodstained bundle wrapped in his black and white coat. She carried herself as though she were some sort of failure, and he could only imagine the perfectionist's self-damnation that whirlpooled in her chestnut head.

"Princess." Reaver spoke as they reached the road, "Ride with me to Bowerstone. At least grant me this."

The Queen turned and eyed him, deliberating this in her mind. Reaver waited for an answer as William stumbled up after them and tripped, cracking his chin on a rock beside the road.

The Queen bit her nail once again—that innocent gesture of consideration entranced him so! As William whimpered away from Reaver and climbed up to open the carriage door, Reaver awaited her answer.

Nodding, the Queen made her way toward him and said, "Alright. I will accompany you. Thank you, Reaver."

"It is my pleasure. How uncouth would I be to make a tired and wounded young lady travel alone in these beast-infested woods?" Reaver smiled.

The ride was as bumpy as it was silent. Reaver watched the gray, rainy day light playing over her bruised features and the tiniest cut across her right cheek. The Queen looked a mess and yet she had never looked so ravishing. He waited a good hour before initiating small talk, knowing well that she was hostile toward him by nature, and her perceived failure would only aggravate that.

"You must be tired." Reaver said.

The Queen said nothing, watching the scenery through a window, partially covered by a red, velvet shade. She tightened her hold on the coat around her.

"Are you cold, my dear?"

She shook her head, "...No."

He scoured his mind for some other means of conversation. What topic could he strike that would ignite her thoughts?

"I'm... glad that you pulled through well, Princess. I would have loathed to bring the bad news to... Miss Page." Reaver did his best to feign a warm mindset toward his rival. In truth, it was not terribly difficult—had she not been his rival, she would have made a wonderful romantic interest.

"Page is a great leader. She has promised to bring closure any mission I left open-ended."

Reaver mulled over these words in his mind. Had the Queen already given Page a degree of control over the kingdom's army? Just how much influence did the little Resistance girl have?

"I see. What missions would have been left? You do so well to finish what you start."

The Queen cleared her throat, still gazing out the window, "...the coming war against the Crawler. If I cannot be there to lead, then she will guide the people in my place. She and Sir Walter."

Reaver leaned back, silent once more. It annoyed him to realize just how much power the Queen had handed her lover. Just how much control over the kingdom could he have gleaned from her had he been the beloved instead of Page?

As if his iron web of business monopolies hadn't lent him enough connections and power... there was always room for more agents, he reminded himself.

"You were always skilled at securing good promises." Reaver said.

A moment of silence long enough for William to sneeze outside passed. When the Queen spoke, her voice cracked yet again, this time due to the hoarseness of a night out in the cold, flavored by a cacophony of shouts and battle cries.

"The only good promise is a promise kept." A stray hair slipped down across her cheek and teased Reaver's longing fingertips. For the first time the entire ride, she turned to look at him. Her earthen brown gaze was as rapturous as it was hypnotic no matter her expression—grinning, wincing, angered, laughing, or even as serene as she was before him.

"Yes... yes it is, isn't it?" Reaver gave a quiet reply as the carriage rocked over a minor rough patch in the road.

"But most promises do go forgotten, I suppose." She added.

Reaver shook his head and said, his voice just barely above a whisper, "No. A good many are remembered. The matter is simply that time changes things."

"I guess that's true." The Queen admitted, looking down at the floor now.

Reaver tried to follow her gaze and smiled, "Do you believe I would forget?"

"Forget what?"

Reaver chuckled, "Any promise I were to make you, my Princess?"

"I would be childish to trust you entirely, you know. A silly, idealistic child. Even now I find myself falling back into old ways. It is weak and it is foolish. I have no time for such immaturities." The Queen could muster such a stern and all-knowing voice—it was complimentary to her mere twenty years of life. Reaver found her to be an all-around amusing package. It seemed everyone at twenty knew all there was about trust and childishness.

"So cute to see you, of all people, speaking of immaturities." When he laughed, she gave him an irate look.

"Well, you do realize I would be foolish to trust you! You who so freely pulls a gun on anyone who so much as speaks to you wrong! Who sees living, breathing, family-loving people as just numbers! You'd sooner stab a back than shake an honest hand."

Reaver cast her a sure gaze and his best devilish smirk, "You always were a dramatic girl, weren't you? I suppose time can not change everything."

In his pocket, he caught the touch of that ribbon once again. He gathered it into his palm and lowered his head, letting himself fall silent. There were a good many things that time could not change.

* * *

**~ Another delicious Author's Note! ~ **

In case anyone minds, I've rewritten the first chapter. For those of you who read the original, don't worry, not much changed. I took out Reaver's long societal commentary because I felt that I was "telling" and not "showing" what kind of man he is. Don't worry, we'll get to see some of the original in some reincarnated form later on in the story, as he had paved the way for an important plot point, but for now, I think Chapter 1 version 2.0 is closer to what I want the story to be. Less clunky, more action. It was also sexier. I'm going to confess/spoil it for you that this fic is going to get sexual soon. In fact, my original idea was for it to be a series of almost PWP lemons, but as I outlined the story, things got... fleshed out. So for anyone not keen on lemons, don't say I didn't warn you! ^_^'' I promise to keep it tasty!

I also thought that I hadn't captured what an arse Reaver really is (i.e. he hadn't killed enough innocent henchmen yet, lmao.) I want to point out around this point that while Reaver does seem a bit nice, it's not sincere at all. He is not a nice guy and he sees everything and everyone as beneath him. The only thing he seeks to gain by aiding the Queen was the possibility of getting in her pants. Unfortunately, that did not work out as planned. It seems that something's always getting in the way.

Thank you all for the kind reviews, you have no idea how much it encourages me! Each one inspires me to get this thing banged and done. ;) Oh, well, and Reaver, too. I suppose he inspires me. Just a little.

Love,  
K0USAGI


	4. Stifled Divergence

04.

Moans and sighs of all kinds filled the torrid pleasure chamber; shrill, ecstatic cries from Jezebella, who was pinned down under a growling Adam, soft and almost inaudible yelps from Sarah, who ground her hips into James's, and then there was Victoria, whose very characteristic, but cute grunts (feminine grunts, mind you) seemed to come from a new direction every few minutes.

On any other evening, the throes of a stormy night in the outside world would have gone unnoticed, drowned out by the moans and giggles of men and women partaking in fervid orgy. On any other feverous night, he too, would drown himself in the clumsy thrashing of flesh, limbs, and strong wine. Yet he could not go undisturbed on that particular evening. Not even a slender body's undulating motions against his own could settle his overly talkative mind.

Despite the slender tongue that Emily tickled his jaw line with, despite the lips he could not even name teasing his throbbing body, he could not stop _thinking_. Each patter of a raindrop that echoed into the heart of the manor from the storm outside caught his attention, his _fixation_.

Reaver heard Nate growling sweet nothings to Vanessa and Esmeralda, heard Wilfred mewling nearby, who was now under a lustful assault from James. No matter how grand their climactic cries became, he could not smother that damned rain! With an irritated growl, Reaver sat up, letting Emily tumble off the grandiose bed and hit the floor with a squeak and a thud.

"Don't mind me, my sweets," Reaver told his bedmates with quick caresses and even quicker kisses, "I seem to have remembered a pressing matter that needs to be attended to. Do carry on."

"Aw, we'll miss you, Reaver!" James cooed.

Reaver leaned over Wilfred, who was biting his pillow in attempt to stifle his cries, and gave James a parting kiss that was returned with the dominating and forceful tongue James was known for. When Reaver left, he slipped on a light pair of white pants and a matching shirt with cool, thin fabric.

He stepped out onto second floor veranda and took a seat at one of the tables, longing for the gin he used to overindulge in. Those were far more immature nights, he recalled without regret, back when he resigned to a life alone, without the complications of others. It was back then that he would lock himself away in a large mansion tucked away in Bloodstone, with the riches plundered from an overly successful life as a smuggler and miserly shared with no one but a good drink.

Back then, he would hear the sound of the rain and savor it. It was one of the few things that brought him memories of a certain woman from Oakvale that loved the rain. It was rare that he let her sneak back into his mind, yet even against his will, no matter how hard he battled it or tried to drown it in the most debilitating sweet poisons, that certain beloved of memory would swim back to the surface.

A flicker of lightning on the horizon triggered the recollection of light that shone like gold off her braid as she walked beneath the canopy of thick, green trees. She had glanced back at him, hand basket in tow, with a smile, an innocent smile, caring little of her waning time upon the earth. Reaver shut his eyes and cursed under his breath. He had eliminated the harsh, poor man's alcohols from his life for a reason, yet not even his best wine would suffice that night.

"_That braid..."_

Even if the past had been different, she would be long gone and buried all the same, and he would have been a widower, bound to the memory of a love he could never hold again. There was a trace of that disgustingly breakable thing inside of him that he had thought he destroyed long ago. That sliver of his past that glinted off of his waning drunkenness terrified him more than any beast or tyrant that threatened Albion.

Oh, but that long, full, silken braid woven of mahogany threads and those soft, brown eyes!

Reaver glanced at a small envelope with the red, wax crest of the royal family upon it. It was opened, torn at the side with an inch of the card slipping out. He picked it up and liberated the card from it's soft, paper prison. The glimmer of gold ink shimmering under a brief flash of light. The rain beyond the veranda poured a little heavier as he considered the contents of the invitation he had read once and then cast aside.

It was an invitation to a ball at the castle in celebration of the first day of autumn. It was not the first and it would not be the last disregarded invite he had recieved. His own personal parties held far more interest than anything Bowerstone Castle had to offer. Save for one thing—that sweet little Queen who had stood so cold and solemn before those fourteen graves.

Her icy resistance could be melted, surely. The thick, stone walls guarding her from him could be torn down with the right weaponry; and Reaver's armory was vast.

Reaver slipped back into the warm manor, resigning to sleep, but not before more of the darkest, strongest wine he could find. He knew the toxic taste would soothe his tongue and his mind. He followed his craving to the kitchen, startling one of the maids who had shuffled in to clean up after his now-occupied guests. He said nothing, passing her with only the card in his hand and weary impatience in his eyes. She nearly leaped away and hurried out of the kitchen with mumbled apologies to which he paid little attention.

Strings and trinkets of party decor littered the floor as it often did. He stepped over them without a care, more concerned with trying to revive his lost inebriation. When he reached the grand, wooden table at the heart of the kitchen, he was met with an unorganized mess of wine bottles and remnants of the evening's feast to sort through.

Three bottles of merlot, a half-empty bottle of cabernet sauvignon, a few more bottles of pinot noir with varying amounts of remaining liquid. The much sweeter white wines were hardly of interest to him, but seemed quite popular with some of his guests. He passed his fingertips over each identical bottle tip as he scoured each label for his favorite. A bottle of almost-flat champagne caught his eye. He closed his fingers around the neck.

When he shut his eyes he caught a glimpse of that smiling, giggling spectre sitting beside him on a day spun from gold. Each long finger was working it's way around the braid of vanilla-scented hair that she was topping off with a red ribbon—oh how red that ribbon shone in his mind! She heard the popping of the bottle and turned to him with wide, golden brown eyes.

Her lips moved, but time had eroded the sound of her voice or the memory of her words.

She crawled over the grass and the blanket they sat upon and her arm bolted across his lap. Her laughter was faint in his mind and each time the scene replayed, he found her voice growing fainter. Those nimble little fingers of hers took the glass he had filled for himself and snatched it away. He recalled a devilish and playful grin as she let her rosy lips linger on the edge of the glass. How she had loved sweet, sparkling wines, his lost beloved with her opalescent flesh and slender, slightly freckled neck! Her last smile must have been nearly three hundred years ago.

Reaver groaned and tore his hand away bottle.

No, he thought. He knew the number of years exactly; the number of years, the number of months, the number of weeks, and the number of days since—

The bottle drunkenly tilted and swayed before crashing off the edge of the table. The sound snapped him back to the miserable, unkempt kitchen and once more, he was alone.

The pinot noir would suffice, he thought with a sigh. A small pool of the remaining champagne was forming near his foot and went ignored. As he grabbed the first glass he saw, he caught a worried glimpse from a maid. _Why was she still standing there!_

By instinct, he reached for his beloved Dragonstomper .48 holstered at his leg—but the maid was spared by the gun's uncharacteristic absence.


	5. Scored Paper

Holidays were always a time for grandeur in Castle Bowerstone. Grand celebrations were held in the ballroom that dwarfed Reaver's parties by comparison. But what was one to expect—castles held more opportunity for wild, drunken celebrations than even the grandest manors (of which he owned quite a few.) The holiday in particular was that of autumn's first day. Merriment was made by dance and music and guests from all reaches of Bowerstone were present, even the rambunctious and under-bathed miscreants of Mistpeak.

Reaver kept to his own corner of the table that was arranged and adorned beautifully for the guests of honor. He had an abundant supply of wine and he had his fill of delectable roast bird. Other guests chattered around him, and the three lovers he had given the opportunity to accompany him—his favorites of the week, Jasmine, James, and Victoria took great pleasure in enjoying the banquet and social frivolities. Reaver, however, resigned to sitting quietly in his seat with his goggles over his eyes and both hands on his ornate black and white cane. His fingertips drummed over his knuckles as he made an evening of watching the Queen sitting beside her favorite honorable guest, Page.

The two laughed and giggled together like schoolgirls. Both were ravishing in their ball gowns—yes, the Queen had made the effort to don a fluffy skirt and appropriate feminine wear! He had fully expected his favorite little valkyrie to arrive in the princely suit akin to the one she wore to royal meetings and gatherings. Her formalwear had never been so feminine, he thought in retrospect.

"_And_ _my, my!_ " He thought with a smirk, _"Do I see the faint sheen of glossy red lipstick? And do I see a sparkle of violet eye shadow to complement her honey eyes?" _

Surely, the Queen sought to look her best that evening—for him, no doubt.

Then there was Page, who, on the other hand was easily fit into tight dresses and figure-flattering frilly wear without resistance. She had always waltzed about Bowerstone with a sleek and exotic, goddess-like appeal that tickled a longing nerve inside of him. Violet and lilacs adorned the silks that clothed her, complementing the honey brown skin that so matched her lover's eyes. How drunk, he wondered, would the two have to both be bedded at the same time? What a delectable chocolate and vanilla dessert they would make!

"Master Reaver, you're unusually quiet this evening!" Sweet-hearted Jasmine cooed, taking a seat upon his lap and wrapping her arms around him. As if the two women had premeditated their attack, Victoria took a seat upon his other thigh with a similar giggle and planted a quick kiss on his neck. He knew that if they were in a more private place, James would have done the same, but he had issues about being seen affectionate in public. Instead, he attended the ball masquerading as the fashionista Victoria's assistant. None of that had stopped Reaver from grabbing at James's rear earlier in the night, or coercing him into a tryst in a library with Victoria while Jasmine was lost somewhere between the ballroom and the entrance hall (what fun it was to let his gullible little sheep wander off!)

"Is it too bright in here for you, love?" Victoria asked, grazing her slender fingertips over the gold rims of his goggles.

Reaver continued to eye the Queen and her mistress far across the dining hall area. The two women planted a quick kiss on each other's lips before rising and making their way down to the dance floor, the Queen holding her lady's hand like a love struck gentleman. It seemed that not even a lacy, bell-shaped gown could hide some of her inadvertently masculine gestures and tendencies.

"It is a bit bright, I must confess. You see, I have two shining suns on either leg." Reaver added with a devilish grin, "In fact, I would be blinded by you beauties had I come unprepared."

"Aw, but Reaver, I love when you _come unprepared!"_ Jasmine sighed into his ear.

Beneath the goggles, no one would see the way Jasmine's innuendo caused him to shut his eyes and give a sighing grin as he recalled just the thing she referred to. But he pushed the thought aside with a low laugh and said, "Well! My loves, please excuse me… but there is a sweet little beast that is rightfully mine which I must go hunt down."

Jasmine and Victoria hopped off his lap, each giggling. Victoria stumbled onto a jovial James's lap and let his large arms wrap around her. James winced when Victoria shifted over what Reaver knew was a rather large bruise he had left on James's thigh during foreplay.

Reaver made his way across the black and white tiled floor, never once taking his eyes off of his prey. The Queen and her lover danced to a symphony of strings and violins amidst a sea of swirling, waving dresses and tall, silver wigs and over painted faces. He had chosen his moment with strategic finesse, taking into his arms a nobleman's lady, who by laws of the current dance, would be shifted to a new partner.

The lady looked up at him with wide blue eyes and her lips parted in surprise.

"Why, hello, my dear." Reaver said, flashing a handsome smile at the smitten, but rather withered, middle-aged woman.

"A-ah, hello, milord…" She squeaked, doing her best not to lose the pace of the dance.

"If you don't mind, I have a particular region of the ballroom to get to, now please don't resist. Or, alternatively, you may. But I may have to get a little rough. Which is hardly a bad thing."

"Y-yes! Yes, of course. Just, ah, just take me wherever you please." The woman grinned. Had she not been so prig-like in appearance, Reaver would have done more than just smile and nod. Yet her upturned nose and over powdered face spoke volumes of the wrinkles she sought to hide.

"I never imagined I would share a dance with you, milord!" She spoke, her voice a wretched warble of a sound, "I-I can't express my—"

"Yes, yes! Now you can say you got to share a dance with Reaver! Not that anyone will believe you! Ah, here we go." Reaver said as the music signaled to switch partners once more—he released the bumbling woman just as Page slipped past him.

As Page caught sight of Reaver's victorious grin, she turned her head back in a mix of confusion and annoyance. Page took Reaver's former partner into her arms and continued the dance, not once taking her crystal blue eyes off of her rival and her lover joining hands in dance.

The Queen had been reluctant to take his hand and her rhythm was thrown off by his appearance. He felt her heel stumble over the tip of his boot and he laughed, holding her even tighter to force her tall, lithe body into proper step.

"Do try not to step on my boots, my dear."

"I had not seen you all evening! Where did you slither in from?"

"Some might argue heaven… or perhaps the arms of Aphrodite herself. Depends on who you ask, I suppose, my Princess." Reaver replied.

The Queen rolled her eyes and he noticed her begin to survey the area for the dance partner she would be given off to next. Reaver pulled her into a turn as the forced nature of their motions became more apparent.

"You seem a bit stiff, dear. Is something the matter?"

"Only you."

"Perhaps I could fix that with a little more of me. The hair of the dog that bit you, as it were... it is indeed the best way to cure a hang over, I must say."

"You just love the sound of your own voice, don't you?" The Queen growled, looking around for Page.

"Not as much as when it is coupled with yours in the throes of lust, my love."

"Keep fantasizing, then. I'm sure you recognize who _my _love is. I don't plan on that changing any time soon."

Reaver took in a long breath. When the music signaled for her to be released to another partner, he saw Page nearby, waiting to steal away his Queen. When she leaned toward Page, he gave her body a rough tug back against himself and Page slipped past them with a loud curse and collided with another dancing pair. The Queen tried to tug her wrist from his gloved hand and winced when he tightened his grip.

"I only came to see you, dear. You see, I can hardly stand people. Much less an entire ballroom full of oafs and troglodytes that the gene pool would do well to clean itself of! Although if that is your strategy to appear more precious a diamond than you already are, I must say, it is a brilliant and successful tactic. You stand out like a Samarkan porcelain doll amidst cotton rag toys."

"Was that supposed to be romantic?"

Reaver pursed his lips in a slight gesture of faint thought and then nodded, "It was one of my best."

"Then do Albion a favor and spare us any romantic literary endeavors."

Reaver laughed, "Ah, ahaha, oh, you! I must break that favor, as I've already published my autobiography. You've heard of it, haven't you? _Reaver on Reaver_?"

"I heard the title and assumed it was pornography."

"Well, I'm sure parts of it could make you blush."

"Is there something in particular that you want from me Reaver? Because I would like to return to dancing with someone who actually matters to me." The Queen was growing colder by the minute and Reaver could only laugh.

"Your sense of humor is adorable. Your proficiency at acting, even more so."

That accursed ballad signaled once again for him to release her and once again, he refused. Page had returned again, this time making a more obvious reach for the Queen whom he pulled away, nay, _tore_ away in the opposite direction. He heard Page's grunt of annoyance and laughed—perhaps the parties of Bowerstone Castle were not as devoid of merriment as he had once thought!

"This is your last chance, Reaver. If there is something worth my time, then you had best get it out now." The Queen said, "…and why do you insist on wearing those unsightly goggles? It isn't even bright in here!"

Reaver sighed, leaning his head back slightly and slipping the Queen into a twirl before pulling her back against his body. He held her closer than what was called for, but he would not release her for the world… well, perhaps the world in its entirety. Or even a majority. But to her luck, that was not the current case!

"My Princess, my beauty, my darling," Reaver said, letting her name cross his lips after, as if she were his own by birthright, "…you have been haunting my dreams, you see."

"I do hope with a sharp blade, or two."

Reaver clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a noise of disappointment, "Do hush for just a moment, darling. As much as I'd love to hear you scream my name, I must confess you can give me quite the headache at times."

Page passed them again and the Queen whispered something to her with a disappointed shake of her head. Reaver caught a glimpse of her braid swinging behind her.

"Have you ever thought to love another?"

The Queen looked back at him with unreadable eyes. He, like every other pair, dipped the fairer dance partner. She did not break his gaze nor did he break hers, despite the screaming urge to steal an eyeful of her ample bosom. Only when he pulled her back up did she speak.

"What are you talking about?"

"The heart is a fickle thing. Society expects us to love one and only one. We are inclined to mate and settle down and marry and bring all sorts of little rug rats into the world and rot away with that one same person for the remainder of life. All while you and that person sneak longing glances at the neighbor or the well-built churchgoer who sits across from you every Sunday. When one spends their life a faithful, loyal dog to their mate, they leave themselves open for their mate to become another man's _paramour_, you see. It is such a dreadful and even depressing affair, the sort of love that this world forces us to conform to."

"I would say you're merely cynical," The Queen answered, more than willing to defend her ideals, "Perhaps cheated on one too many times by an unsatisfied lover to ever trust another person again, I assume?"

Reaver laughed a deep, throaty laugh and then said, "Oh, well! So sharp you might just score paper if it's thin enough!"

"What else could have made you so proud of your unfaithful methods of loving? Why, do you come to me expecting me to fall for you just like any other air headed and naïve maid? Do you expect me to succumb to your charms and become a part of your twisted little harem when I could be quite happy spending my life with Page?"

"I do not seek to tear you away from Page, actually, but yes, part of that is true. Especially the bit about naiveté… as hard as you fight to hide it, you are quite the poster child for innocence. The fair, just, good Queen of Bowerstone. Little more than a princess who retains her childhood ideals and dreams of a handsome prince to sweep her away on a white horse."

"Oh, please—"

"I do have a white horse. Three, actually."

"Reaver, all this time, I thought you were just being a fool. In all honesty, I had not thought you serious about your advances. You honestly seek to add me to your collection of porcelain-faced lovers?" The Queen said, her voice softening.

Reaver nodded, smiling, "Yes! Yes, this is exactly what I have been trying to get through to you all this time! How lovely you would be nestled between Victoria and Sarah, or even beside Wilfred and James! My dear, my princess, my sweet little kitten, I can assure you that you would _never_ be bored as my lover… In fact, we would all accept you with warm, open, naked arms."

"You're out of your mind. I'd sooner be nestled between two whores in the Industrial Quarter."

How dare she make a joke of his heart!

Reaver's grip on her hand tightened. He heard a quiet pop in her wrist and she gasped, wincing and trying to tear away. As she fought to tug her hand away and keep her growing discomfort subtle—flashing brief, irate smiles when someone crossed them with a look of concern—she glared up at Reaver. He knew she was regretting her words.

"I love Page. There is nothing you can do to change that. In fact, I can safely say that I could _never _love you!You don't even _know_ what love really is!"

They had been near the line of thick, ornately designed pillars that bordered the ballroom floor when she said that. With his patience wearing ever thinner, he pulled the Queen from the dance floor so swift that no one had even noticed their disappearance. In the shadows behind the soft, maroon and gold tapestries and the pearlescent marble pillars, he shoved her against the wall and growled into her ear.

"…and what do you know about love, child? What is it that you are so proficient in despite your meager years? Do tell me, have you ever had your heart broken? Forcefully penetrated with a knife and had it wrenched about in all vile ways imaginable?"

"Of course I have! I doubt you're unfamiliar with the sight of someone you grew up _dreaming of_ coming to share trysts and kisses with someone else! If anything, I should be the one asking if _you_ have ever truly felt heartbreak—after all, _you_ assume that _you_ get everything you want without effort and if things sour, you simply shoot it! You honestly think me as childish as to assume I know what love and heartbreak is without first experiencing it? I pity your covetousness, Reaver. And pity is all I seem to have left for you these days."

Reaver was still, his body still rough against hers and his lips just inches from her soft ear lobe. He could smell a sweet fragrance in her hair, a scent that only exacerbated his growing frustration. Should he squeeze her hand any tighter, he was certain that he could break it and leave her regretting that night. But he had seen her strength and knew that there was just a sliver of chance in her favor that he would do well not to gamble on. She was the Hero of Brightwall, after all—a Hero with all the strength, skill, and will that came with her position in Albion's history.

He exhaled and painted a smile back on his face as he leaned back and gazed down at his rough, but fair beauty, "Surely I can glean more than just that from you."

"Don't bother, Reaver. There is nothing left for you here."

She tugged away and he pulled her back for the last time, "How long will it be before your beloved Page spends just a little too long with her old darling, Finn? Hm? How long will it be before you wait alone in your shared bed for a lover who will not return? She gazes at you and laughs with you now, but she is only human. Humans are _such_ unfaithful beasts."

The Queen was silent, not once allowing him to catch her line of sight. She hung her head low and Reaver released her hand to take her short braid into his fingers. As he stroked it, brushing its feathery tip against her bare shoulder, he continued.

"All of them so limited by their number of years to walk the earth… it's only natural that they fear missing out on the grass that glistens so green on the other hill. Would you spend your life with just Page and grow old, wondering if you had missed the chance at something far greater?"

"Do you imply that _you_ might be that alternative?"

Reaver gave a quiet laugh, letting her braid's silken threads graze against his lips, "I don't imply anything of the sort, my dear. In fact, I would hardly mind having Page as well. What I do imply, however, is that you do not, and should not limit yourself to just one simply because you've been told it is what is right."

When he brought his fingertips to her chin and tilted her head upward to look into her eyes, he added, "Have us both, if you must. She'll learn to accept it if she truly loves you."

"You're mad. You're a deviant."

"I only long for a taste of you, my Princess."

The Queen tore away from him and he granted her mercy. She stormed away without another word, bringing a gloved hand to her eyes. Reaver only grinned at the tiniest seedlings he had planted in the garden of her mind. She was still a child, after all, and her garden would inevitably be ridden with the weeds of insecurity. He had just caressed every single one with loving care and watered every fear with the love of a master gardener.

"Oh, Reaver, you _have_ outdone yourself, haven't you?" He laughed in the silence.

He made his way back to Victoria, Jasmine, and James, who were sharing kisses without him. Jasmine and Victoria both clasped their hands and fondled James under the tablecloth. He breathed heavily and fought to hide the pleasures that the giggling girls were torturing him with and Reaver was more than willing to join in on such noticeable efforts at covert release. He leaned in behind the seated James and planted hot kisses against the blond man's neck and even nipped at the nape. Reaver whispered into James's ear all of the things he wanted to do to Jasmine—despite the fact that it was the Queen who was truly on his mind.

Jasmine giggled as she overheard the graphic descriptions of erotic positions and penetrations. When she blushed and graced Reaver's cheek with a kiss, James let out a fevered groan and then hunched forward, his breathing fast and his face flushed a rosy pink.

Jasmine and Victoria giggled and then pulled away from their hunched over lover, feigning innocence and looking straight ahead with their hands folded over their laps. Reaver gave his naughty lovers an approving grin and winked at a very perturbed-looking servant who had come by to gather the emptied goblets and plates.

The servant turned away and left without word. Reaver gathered his brood with the same swiftness, whispering sultry promises in their ears and beckoning them to return to a _real party_ at his manor. They were far quicker to comply than the Queen, needless to say.

* * *

**~ Some omake for ya... ~**

So, usually, I like to make artwork to accompany my fanfics. It seems that if the fics don't inspire me to make more art, then fanart inspires me to make fics. It's such a vicious cycle. T^T

I made a picture specifically for this chapter. AGHHH. TOTALLY INSPIRED BY ANASTASIA, haha. I want to try and have one picture for each chapter. I think breaks links, so I'll have a clickable version of the link in my profile. For the mean time, it's kousagi (dot) deviantart (dot) com/#/d362k30

And thank you again for reading! Happy New Years, fellow Reaverphiles!


	6. Embers

The sky overhead was a bleak slate of coal that seemed to shift at an otherworldly speed. When lightning flashed, the wiry witch-fingers of dried treetops appeared. The air was cold and smelled of damp soil. The copper taste of blood was on his tongue. Reaver shivered and groaned, looking about the Wraithmarsh for the ever-loyal Barry Hatch and his newest sacrifice, a slender and all-too-willing little beauty called Benjamina. Neither were anywhere to be seen; perhaps both devoured by the banshees of the fog that floated like thick, white, walls all around him.

At any moment, those walls could collapse on him and choke him. In fact, they were already closing in, crumbling into a deadly shroud that wrapped cold fingers around his neck. He batted his arms out to dissipate the unyielding white beast. When he opened his mouth to yell out for Barry or Benjamina, his voice came out a wet gurgle and blood bubbled over his lips. He brought his hands to his mouth, as if to force back the blood that would not stop. When he realized no tongue moved in his mouth, he discovered just where that seemingly infinite supply of blood sprang from.

Reaver yelled again, choking on the blood and feeling that cold web of fog wrapping around his throat again. He jerked away from the cloud, stumbling over a branch or a root buried in the mud. At once he was submerged in the foul-smelling, algae-infested water. He pulled himself back up and began to run in the first direction in which he saw a light. A very distant light from somewhere far off that flickered on and off like a precious lighthouse in a sea of fog.

Fingertips brushed over the back of his neck and he reached for his gun—it was gone. Not even his cutlass was sheathed in its rightful place at his side. He looked down in a confused bout of annoyance and terror before another frustrating something caught his footing and sent him tumbling down a long hill. He screamed the entire way down, covered in the dirt and filth of the Wraithmarsh, his mouth filled with his own blood.

"_Oh, my Prince Charming…"_ A soft voice breathed in his ear.

Reaver looked up from the miserable landing of rocks and weeds that he had stumbled upon. He caught a flash of a long red cloak that disappeared into the fog as quickly as it had appeared. He shifted to his feet, unaware of the way his body had begun to tremble from both the cold and the effect Wraithmarsh had on the nerves. He swallowed back a mix of spit and blood, unable to speak, unable to do more than hobble toward the light once more. Pain shot through his ankle and leg—sprained in the fall, undoubtedly.

"_You promised me you'd be back shortly. I even made your favorite blueberry pie… it grew cold, you know."_ Her voice came from every area, as if it were the voice of the fog itself.

Reaver spun around, searching for the source of the voice. With another misstep, he collapsed to the soil again, this time splashing into it as if it had become quicksand. It had. That red fabric tickled over his face and he panicked, snapping at that moment to scream and begin pulling from the mud that sucked him in with every movement.

"_Why? Why?"_ Her voice repeated each word the same as the last. Soon, he heard more voices adding to the same repetitive, cacophonic chorus.

A single, orange ember fluttered past his face and he went still. There was warmth behind him, a source of orange light. More embers began to fall like glowing snow until he succumbed to the urge to turn around. A raging fire that he had seen once long ago illuminated the dark Wraithmarsh with blinding fury.

"_Please look, love. Please. Why? Why? You promised you'd be back shortly." _

He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed. His voice was drowned out by the chorus.

Those cold fingertips reached around his neck again. An icy touch gripped his chin and beckoned him to look over his shoulder, but he pulled away, refusing to face that fiery light. He struggled, managing to pull up one hand with a loud sucking noise. His eyes widened at the sight—his hand and arm were shriveled with age, worn thin and smattered with coarse, white hair. Despite the blood trickling from his head, despite the dizziness each breath now left him with, he screamed again and squeezed his eyes shut.

"_Please come with us… we miss you so!" _

He heard giggling. He heard the steps of horseshoes on cobblestones. He heard her laughter and her singing with the children coming out of the church on a Sunday afternoon. He saw _her_ in her favorite red dress and hood looking up at him with the most beautiful, soft-lipped smile he had ever seen. He heard the children giggling and singing hymns to Avo, and he saw her near the bookshelf of their home touching the ring on her finger with a demure smile.

His struggles were pulling him deeper into the mud and it would not be long before it took him. Dirt and blood sputtered over his lips as he groaned and saw more embers floating down from the sky like scarlet snow.

"_Don't go… don't go… don't go!"_ He heard her plea. He struggled even more, knowing it would submerge him to an inevitable muddy grave.

He was almost there!

The mud and swampy filth had passed his lips and was filling his aching, tongue-less mouth. When the mud covered his nose and began to sting his eyes, he tried to squeeze them shut, but he saw that red-cloaked figure trapped in an eternal, weightless dance across the fog. The figure turned to him with no face beneath the hood. A long braid fluttered behind its feminine form, but he knew it was far from the angel it sought to imitate—his angel had a matching red ribbon that this banshee did not.

The banshee began to laugh as his beloved's pleas for him to stay grew deafening amidst the noises of a town that no longer existed. When the banshee's bony fingers revealed his Dragonstomper .48 and pointed it at him, he stopped moving and squeezed his eyes shut, more than welcoming his well-deserved fate.

He heard a gunshot and bolted upright, no longer constrained by heavy mud.

Reaver's thrashing arms smacked Victoria in the eye and his elbow crashed into James, who only grunted and turned over in unbreakable slumber. He heard Sarah whimper by his knee, but paid the two bruised beauties little mind, more concerned by that strangling feeling that had just been cast away by Avo's mercy. He swallowed hard, welcoming the return of his much-beloved tongue and lay back against the surplus of silken red pillows.

"Master Reaver!" Victoria cooed, "…are you alright? Did you have another nightmare?"

Reaver said nothing at first, covering his eyes with his forearm. He sat up again and walked across the cold, tile floor, his body bare and unclothed. When he reached the pile of clothes at his dresser across the room, he grabbed his pistol and turned back to his harem—they were such a nice ensemble, it would be difficult indeed to replace every one of them!

"M-Master Reaver…?" Jasmine's trembling voice came, as she rubbed her jaw.

"Ah, you want another forceful fantasy?" Victoria forced a giggle, despite the terror in her wide, gray eyes.

"How I love that game! Wake up, James, get the ball gag and the ropes!"

"Ooh… not that again… can I just watch this time?" Sarah groaned, rolling over.

Reaver pointed at the ceiling, blasting a hole in it and causing everyone to jump from their slumber.

"I want you all out. Now." Reaver only needed to say this before each and every one of his stunned lovers scrambled to their feet and raced for the door, many not even bothering to grab an article of clothing. Sarah, James, Victoria, Wilfred, a stumbling and shrieking Jasmine, Adam and Jezebella, and finally Emily disappeared. He had not realized until then that Nate and Esmeralda were strangely missing from the rough session they had shared the night before. Reaver had a feeling he would probably stumble across them sleeping in one of his closets or passed out in a bath tub somewhere if the Dragonstomper's gunshot hadn't awakened them—and he was certain that it would. It was a deafening roar that people on the other side of Millfields would surely hear.

With his hidden room at the core of the manor emptied, he sighed. He was too tired and his head throbbed far too much for him to deal with any of the coos and kisses that his lovers always seemed to want to shower him with in the mornings. That morning was an especially awful morning for any form of touch or lust.

He climbed the stairs into his bed room, still unclothed and holding his gun in one hand. His poor, unloved pistol was overdue for a good polishing and cleaning, he mused.

"William!" He called once and waited.

He called out a second time, "Oh, **William**!"

Reaver knew that there would not be a third time, as did William. He heard a sneeze, followed by the clumsy, wiry-legged man's rampant footsteps as he raced against the clock to his master's side. It was a shame that a balverine mistress had torn apart poor Barry. Had Barry still been alive and in his service, he would need little more than to look around the room and find the naked butler passed out atop some chicken or rabbit or any other unfortunate mammal he had convinced Reaver to bring into the pleasure chamber. He never did understand Barry's strange fascination with bestiality—he gave it a shot after enough convincing, but it was hardly worth a second shot. Nowadays he only kept the chickens around for Adam, it seemed.

"Y-yes, milord!"

"Run the bath, would you? My darling and I are overdue for a good cleaning. Why, after last night, I'm feeling particularly filthy."

William feigned bravery and smirked, "Y-Yes, I-I'm sure you are, milord."

Reaver smirked, noting that the uncertain boy with the gifted tongue had taken his advice to become a bit more assertive, "Oh, aha ha! Well, if you keep that up, I just might invite you to join me."

"You do know it would be my pleasure, sir." William said with a bow, making his way to the bath chamber. He added with a coy glance over his shoulder, "…I-In fact, I could… I could make it your pleasure as well."

Reaver made a slow, teasing chase after William, his interests perked. It seemed that William had come at a delightful time, saving him from any bitter aftertaste that nightmare had left him with.

"Oh, ho! Is that so, dear William? Well, then, I implore you, show me just how much pleasure it could be."

William paled, as he always did when Reaver unexpectedly took up interest in him. William squeaked and made his way even faster into the bathroom, Reaver hot on his heels, laughing, "It's not often that the master washes the butler, is it? Let me show you my benevolence, sweet William! Then you could tell the other servants—not that they would believe you."

* * *

He had received notice of his desired presence at the castle at a terrible time. Another servant had come running into the bath chamber looking flushed and carrying a letter with the royal seal that had not even been bothered by any proper packaging. The servant, Winston, had disheveled hair and a flushed face from all the running—it only served to make the look on his face more amusing when he had walked in on a splashing tub and a bubble-covered, wailing William sitting high upon Reaver's lap.

"A-ah, forgive me, sir, but you have a very urgent message f-from the Queen!"

Reaver loosened his hold around William's waist and exhaled an irritated groan against the slender man's back. With his own face rosy and matted with water and bubbles, he turned to Winston, who abruptly looked away. Winston had always been so uncomfortable when on the receiving end of other men's advances. Reaver could only imagine his mind was utterly melting at the sight of two men in such an erotic state.

"Always, always so many interruptions. What is the message, Winston? Get it over with." William tried to squirm away and made a quiet, but shrill squeak when Reaver pulled him back down on his lap. Reaver giggled and then cooed into his slender lover's ear, "Urgent message or not, you aren't going anywhere, my dear."

"Her Highness has requested your presence immediately at Bowerstone Castle in the Queen's Royal Office—it seems the mining crew past Silverpines has uncovered something that may halt the project entirely."

"Of course… and is there any mention of just _what_ the crew found?" Reaver hissed as he ground his hips against William and growled out of both pleasure and frustration. William arched his back and quivered in Reaver's arms.

Winston seemed to recoil at the sounds William mewled and added very quickly, "W-w-well, no, no, you see, it was only mentioned that it was urgent. Urgent, and, well, that the excavation may have to be stopped entirely…"

"Bother. Well, then, have my black suit laid out for me and… give me a few moments…"

"Yes, sir." Winston was all too happy to leave the bath chamber and the two men submerged up to their chests in bubbly water.

While Winston's reactions were always amusing, there was once again another reminder that Barry would have not shied away in the slightest, or stammered as all of his servants seemed to—the fool had as much fear as he had shame, it had seemed. At least, on the bright side, he would no longer have to deal with Barry with his foul, bodily odors or his unkempt greasy hair, offhandedly asking if he could join Reaver's "parties."

After a tryst in the bath, he cleaned up and donned one of his favorite black suits with a silken white shirt beneath it, a dark vest and a dark bow tie to match. The lining on the double-breasted frock coat was made of the same ruby silk that lined the underside of his black, velvety top hat. Rather than taking the gold-rimmed goggles, he opted for a more suitable pair with red-tinted lenses and black lining.

By the time he reached Fairfax Gardens by carriage, he was met with a very irate-looking Sir Walter Beck who stood outside conversing with a few of the guards. Walter's annoyance was always a source of amusement to Reaver—the man did have a way of scrunching up his nose and aggravating all sorts of nasty wrinkles, many of which were caused by Reaver himself, as well as Logan in his fussier and more rebellious years as the teenage prince. On further thought, he realized that it had been quite a while since he last saw the former King—rumor had it that he was last seen en route for Mistpeak, but he had heard little else of his off and on royal fling.

William opened the carriage door and Reaver stepped out, his cane in hand and his goggles hiding his eyes from a dreadfully bright afternoon. All the bright, white marble architecture only made the sunlight radiate with even more abrasiveness to hung over eyes. Reaver had been in too much of a rush to catch a glass of wine—it would have meant passing up an opportunity to apply just a little more concealing powder and cover up the faint creases he had spotted (much to his horror) beneath his eyes.

"Took you long enough. You have trouble finding your powder brush or something?" Walter growled, the knight's voice as thick and grand as his round belly.

"I merely take cautious steps, you see. There is no point running and risking a painful fall when you can take each step with patient grace." Reaver replied, tilting his head with a coy and mockingly demure smile.

William sneezed after closing the carriage door and then followed up behind Reaver, his rampant heels clicking on the stone beneath them. The young man flinched when Reaver reached around and pulled William against his side like a proud man pulling his gorgeous lover close.

Walter scowled as Reaver said, "You have only this sweet little minx to blame. He kept me… a moment longer than I had expected."

"Well, then!" Walter cleared his throat and turned his back to Reaver, leading the way up the castle steps, "I can safely say I have just thrown up in my mouth a little. Thank you for that, old chap."

"It is always a pleasure. Or rather, William's in this case. Isn't that right?"

Reaver tossed William aside and the clumsy young man shrieked before crashing face-first into the stairs and tumbling down in a flurry of long, wiry limbs. Reaver followed Walter without a second glance at William, who had made a very sudden drop from the top of the stairs to the very bottom a good twenty feet away and below.

"Goodness, there are a lot of stairs!" Reaver sighed, "Oh, William! Do keep up with me, or I might just have to leave you out here to all the vagabonds and molesters!"

The castle had a wonderfully closed-atmosphere that afternoon. Most of the curtains had yet to be pulled open and the often well-lit castle took on a dimmer, more comfortable feel. It helped that despite the bright day, there had been a layer of slight overcast clouds that left everything a gorgeous shade of white and gray. It was like perpetual early-morning. Reaver lifted his goggles and rubbed out the creases that particular pair had often left in his skin.

"So tell me, what is it that the Queen has discovered that is _so_ important for me to be present for?"

"The Queen says she cannot give your men the order to leave the Silvercaves without first consulting you. Of course, she is aware that as Queen she _does_, in fact have such power. But she seems to favor what she calls a more gentlemanly and less tyrannical approach. It's a joke, I must say. If it were me making the calls, I'd have pulled your men out and left you to figure it out months later. Logan would have happily done the same, I'm sure." Walter said, not turning back to Reaver.

Reaver laughed, "Oh, is that so? What a civil Queen we have! Logan did have a way of irritating me with his fickle, flakey decisions that he'd go back on so very often. That reminds me, how is our beloved former-King in self-imposed exile?"

"Have not heard even a whisper of the lad. Rumor has it that he's sought to punish himself for the decisions he made. Whatever that means. I always thought the boy was more unstable than he let on."

They entered a scathingly bright corridor and Reaver turned away from the open windows with a look of annoyance.

"William! _Sunlight_…!"

William nodded and walked between the light and Reaver, producing an ornately painted Samarkan fan that served to shield his master's face. Walter looked back at the spectacle and scoffed.

"Laugh all you want, dear, but I'll be the one with the last laugh when my face isn't devoured by a hungry sun." Reaver said, before adding with a laugh, "Oh, excuse my rudeness! I forgot that your face has already been dried into tough and flavorless jerked meat. You must have been a delicious lad in your… distant youth."

Walter shook his head and muttered something inaudible under his breath. The tall doors to the Queen's Royal Office were opened by a pair of guards who stared straight ahead with stone cold faces. Walter took his place in a plush chair near the bookshelves on the far end of the grand room. The Queen looked up at him from behind the massive partner's desk carved of mahogany and lined with gold. Across from her in one of two matching mahogany chairs was Page—one of the last people he cared to do battle with so early in the afternoon.

"We thought you'd never come." The Queen said, folding her hands and clasping her fingers. Light tinted by the stained glass window behind the desk cast a haunting glow upon the three of them. That tall window brought back memories of the days when that very same room had been the old king's study. That was a good thirty-seven years ago, before even the birth of Logan and just after the fall of Lucian Fairfax. Much had changed about the castle in such a short time.

Reaver smiled as he took a seat beside Page and replied, "I just have that kind of stamina, it seems."

Page rolled her eyes and scoffed.

"Now, what is it that has you sending me an urgent notice in the wee hours of the morning? I have a party to arrange for this evening and some sleep to catch up on."

"What kind of party that's so pressing?" Page asked.

The Queen cast Page a stern look and Page nodded, turning her cyan eyes away from Reaver. When the Queen spoke, she carried hesitation in her voice.

"Carter has informed me that …people were found in the mines."

"Yes, yes, they're called miners, love. Living in caves is what they do. Something like hobbes, only a bit more profitable."

The Queen's pudgy butler, and Logan's former aide, Hobbeson began to laugh from his position to the left of the Queen. Hobbeson had always been quite the big fan of Reaver's humor. Reaver gave Hobbeson a nod of acknowledgement and the butler damn near wept with excitement.

"Hobbeson, keep it down over there." The Queen sighed, leaning back in her tall, leather seat, "…Reaver, please take this seriously. These people are not miners. These people are in need of peace. In fact, I am going to the Silvercaves shortly to meet them, and I would appreciate it if you were to accompany Page and I. She too, seeks to give them the refuge that we have disturbed."

"People? Cave dwellers?" Reaver scrunched up his nose, "Why, how exactly could they form a civilized society in those rocks? Are they ancestors of the Mistpeak dwellers?"

"We honestly have no idea who these people are or why they lived in the caves. In fact, I can't even imagine how they survived without sunlight or how they sustained themselves long enough to build what Carter called a civilization. We would like to pull the miners out of the caves and let the people go undisturbed, but I am loyal to my word and I was the one who had given you the go-ahead to excavate the site. As such, I cannot have it on my conscience to go back on promises as Logan so freely did."

Reaver sat in silence, a grin rising on his face. He laughed and looked around at an annoyed Walter, a displeased Page and a beaming Hobbeson. Finally, he brought his amused gaze back to the Queen, clad in a rugged, but charming mercenary's attire.

"You really are pinned down under the weight of your moral compass, aren't you? Why not just be the tyrant you're bred to be and crush the operation yourself? Surely, you have no concern over what it would cost to compensate the men for broken contracts and the losses the kingdom's treasury would suffer by not harvesting all the fruits of the miner's labor! In fact, you've always put the well-being of people first—what, might I ask, is stopping you now? Is it _really_ your word, or are you just that desperate to drag me here?"

Page's fingernails clicked on the mahogany armrest as she drummed her fingers.

The Queen gazed down at the polished surface in her desk, so clean that Reaver could see her reflection in its dark surface.

"As I said, I made an agreement with you and I am a woman of my word. Should you disagree with Page and I, we can have the people relocated and compensate them for their losses. I discussed it with Carter—the materials found in the caves would more than cover the expenses of compensation. This is the ore that could end this kingdom's financial crisis, yet… yet there are so many factors prevent me from making this decision on my own."

Page could no longer stay silent, "Your Highness, you realize that these people have spent their lives in these caverns and have a way of life, a culture, a societal structure that will be uprooted and possibly even destroyed if we force them out of their birthplace and into some region they are not native to. You recall the gypsy dwellers that once inhabited Bowerstone Lake, I'm sure? When Reaver had them forced out and the area reconstructed into Millfields, the people did their best to survive in Driftwood, but many were exposed to an illness common to the people of Silverpines that they had no natural defenses against. After all, the travelers had been recent immigrants to Albion in the first place. They settled in a place that was safest for them and when they were forced elsewhere, their deaths came in rampant numbers."

"Ah, yes, it's a pity that they could not just take the medicines and pharmaceutical products that we developed. They were stubborn and clung to their old, obsolete ways, you see." Reaver countered, "If anything, one could call it survival of the fittest… and the brightest."

"They refused out of honor to their religion, Reaver!" Page said.

"Then it was their religion that sentenced them to death. Not me."

"Page's point is that these people may suffer the same fate if we were to move them. They have lived isolated from the rest of Albion for Avo knows how long." The Queen interjected, working to cool the fiery air, "Regardless of the decision that you make now, Reaver, I would like to have you accompany us to the site to at least witness these people and their way of life. Surely you could grant us that?"

Reaver leaned back in his seat and tilted his head up to the ceiling with a sigh. He brought two hands up and placed his goggles back upon his face as he answered in a tired voice, "…if I must. I will reserve my decision until after I have seen both the people and the ore which seem to guard. If Carter tells you that this ore may be the _deus ex machina_ that this kingdom needs, then I would like to see it for myself."

The Queen nodded, rising to her feet. Reaver eyed each curve of her body, his gaze hidden behind opaque red lenses. His rose-tinted Queen wore that delicious ensemble of high-cut shorts, striped leggings and a tight, lightweight top that was practical for travel and combat. Her rugged, almost bandit-like attire was the furthest thing he could imagine adorning a Queen's body, but perhaps that was part of her many charms.

"Then we leave now."

Both she and Page were nearly at the door by the time Reaver realized that their quick decision was leading them straight to the Silvercaves. He hurried after them, Hobbeson and William not far behind. When he joined them in the long corridor outside of the Royal Office, her swaying braid caught his eye once more. The clouds had cleared just enough for warm sun rays to kiss her chestnut locks and her clear, soft skin. Oh, how the brighter threads of her hair shone like gold threads in the light!

"Ah, Your Highness, shall I have you a fur coat of some sort purchased for this trip? It's chilly outside!" Hobbeson called after the fast-moving Queen.

"Fur?" The Queen questioned—despite her back being turned to him, Reaver had a clear image of the way she crinkled her nose in that cute expression of distaste, "Hobbeson, I prefer not to keep such impractical, flamboyant luxuries. There are more important things to put our funds toward."

Reaver scoffed, "You would look gorgeous in fur, my Princess."

"Hobbeson, never inquire about fur to me again." The Queen added quickly.

"Yes, Your Highness." Hobbeson said.

As they made their way down a flight of stairs that lead to the office, a familiar, wispy-haired blond man awaited them. Reaver recognized him, but could not quite put a name to the rugged, slightly bearded face.

"Ben Finn!" The Queen called out, her face brightening with warm recognition.

Both the Queen and Page raced down to their friend's side and embraces were shared—an annoyance when they had just been in such a hurry to leave. Reaver considered simply leaving them behind and returning to his plush, red pillows and warm blankets. Or, he could eavesdrop on the strange lack of awkwardness between The Queen and her two subjects that were, at one time, quite impassioned lovers. William sneezed again.

"Sorry, Sir." William apologized when Reaver sent him an irritated glare—that sneeze had made it rather difficult to eavesdrop.

"Page, I hate to tear you away from this, but it's urgent," Ben said, seriousness falling over his rough features, "We have our best forces on it, but a fire has broken out in the Old Quarter."

"A fire? How severe?" The Queen asked.

"Dear Avo…" Page breathed, "How much damage and how fast is the fire spreading?"

"We have yet to accurately gauge the damage, but it isn't pretty. We need help down there. It's an unorganized mess of different firefighting efforts and I evidently don't have the charisma that you have. The Resistance members seek your guidance, Page. You are who they know and trust to lead them." Ben explained.

The Queen sighed and Page nodded.

"Your Highness, if you'll excuse me. I want you to continue this mission. You have to save the people of the Silvercaves. I will handle the fire in the Old Quarter." Page said, her hands clasping the Queen's. The Queen nodded, lowering her gaze and taking Page's hands.

"I will help you when I return. I promise you this." The Queen said, before turning to Walter, "Sir Walter, please round up the troops to aid Page and the Resistance members. It might be awkward for them to fight side-by-side, but this is one of those times that bad blood must be put aside and the people must cooperate to save their homes."

"Right. I'll have us on it in no time." Walter's enthusiastic response came.

Page and the Queen did not even share a brief kiss before their fingertips unclasped. Reaver felt his lips curl into a smile as the lovers parted and the Queen gazed after Page and Ben Finn. Save for William and Hobbeson—or rather not, as the pudgy butler had disappeared somewhere—the two were delightfully alone together in the corridor.

"It is always a bit heart wrenching to watch your lover scurry away with her _ancienne flamme_, isn't it?"

The Queen continued to watch them as Reaver made his way to her now –vacant side. He, too, watched the Queen's lover sharing words with Ben and did not hesitate to coddle the seedlings of jealousy that he had worked so hard to plant during the ball.

"Just look at that laughter they manage to share even at a time like this. Why, I might even say they still carry a glimmer of _désirer_ in their glances, wouldn't you?"

The Queen said nothing, even as Page, Ben, and Walter disappeared through the double doors down the adjacent corridor. She did not flinch under Reaver's leather-gloved hand on her shoulder.

"Should you ever come across an infidelity or two, I'm always willing to… assist you in a very pleasurable form of revenge. Or perhaps we could arrange a quaint little party for four? Those are always good fun." Reaver nearly whispered into her ear.

"Now is not the time, Reaver." The Queen said, pulling away from him.

Reaver laughed, wincing slightly at a sting in his nose, "You do make this affair a difficult one to pursue, don't… don't… _don't_…"

The Queen stepped back as the stinging sensation caused Reaver to wrench up in a sneeze. His cry echoed in the corridor and left Reaver hunched over, turned away from the Queen. One of the guards looked in their direction for a moment before returning to their usual statuesque appearance.

Reaver, still curled slightly to the side, reached for his Dragonstomper .48 and did not even take the time to look in William's direction before pulling the trigger. William could barely let out a shriek before he hit the floor with a lifeless thud.

Reaver sniffled and straightened up, flashing a very perturbed Queen his best smile.

"Pardon me, it's a bit dusty in here, I believe. Where is that delightful little butler of yours? It seems that sneeze caused my trigger finger to slip." Reaver waved the smoking gun around as he gestured to the bloody heap on the floor.

The Queen's eyes were fixed on William for a long time before shooting a glare at Reaver. It had been far from the first time she watched him dispatch one who had outlived their usefulness. She was such a morally robust child! But at times like this, her innocence served to drag her down to hateful, justice-seeking depths. That desire for retribution in the name of petty "goodness" would surely be her undoing, Reaver mused.

"Shall we?" Reaver smiled, taking her arm in his and leading them both to the entrance of the castle in a proud stride. The Queen kept looking back over her shoulder at the deceased William and Hobbeson came running into the corridor with a sweaty, frantic face. When he saw Reaver and the Queen walking arm-in-arm, he looked relieved, but he cringed again at the sight of William's body lying in a growing pool of blood.

"Do clean up that mess, Hobbeson! I fear it might leave a stain if you let it sit too long."

* * *

**~ Thank you! And some more illustrations to accompany the chapter! ~**

I want to thank you guys for your supportive words! I'm glad I'm able to keep Reaver in character, that's one of my biggest challenges of the story. He's such a d-bag. Especially to poor William. Oh, William. I can't imagine the Queen is finding Reaver very appealing either. Reaver, stop digging yourself into a ditch with this chick!

Like the last chapter, I've made some fanart to accompany this. likes to break links, so you can find it in my profile under The Sadism of Eros, Chapter 6. I have so much fun making these, this fic's really inspiring me to pay better attention to cell shading, haha. It's good practice for both writing and drawing. ^_^

On a semi-unrelated note, has anyone else seemed to notice that Reaver has an abundance of blueberry pies? Or is it that blueberry is the only kind of pie you can get in the game? I was playing Fable 3 with some friends the other day and raided Reaver's mansion. Particularly his bedroom and private room just for the lolz (infinite condoms, yes please) and it seemed like every cabinet that did -not- have a condom had either women's pajamas or blueberry pie. Mostly blueberry pie. In his room. What the...

And then came the jokes that he gets lonely and binges on blueberry pie like a depressed teenage girl.


	7. Echo

"What do you know of Ben Finn and Page, Reaver?"

Reaver had been busy admiring the blue and gold interior of the Queen's carriage when her voice broke the silence. He flashed a smile, gripping the top of his cane a little tighter with bubbling excitement.

"Ben Finn… Ah, right, your little Page's _paramour_."

The Queen remained silent, narrowing her eyes.

Reaver leaned back into the comfortable seats adjacent to each other. He gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, scouring his mind for the appropriate words.

"I'm rather surprised Page is as open about her romance with you as she is. She had always been the type to keep her personal life a bit of a mystery. But what mysteries remain as such in Bowerstone? Especially when one has ears and eyes everywhere... from the factories to the very castle you spend your lonely nights in. They don't have to be so lonely, I can assure you."

"I spend my nights with the one I love."

Reaver laughed and then replied, "Is that so? I've heard otherwise."

The Queen tilted her head to the side and he noticed an irritated twitch of a muscle in her long, touchable neck. It _was_ true—he had reliable sleuths and sources that would have been the first to come running to him with gossip had the Queen shared her bed with Page.

"Don't think me a chaste Queen, Reaver."

"Ah, aha, ha! Trust me, I don't. I still recall stumbling across you and Elliot in the garden after your sixteenth birthday, my dear. So unfortunate, the way that boy was so miserable with his tongue. I had the right mind to step in and show him how it was done, but, alas, Logan summoned me before I could grace you two with my far more experienced presence." Reaver sighed wistfully and the Queen's face flushed with the boldest shade of red he had ever seen.

"Page has yet to open up to you. Funny, as she only knew Ben Finn a mere two weeks before they were ravaging each other like rabbits in the spring… or so those salacious tales say… and believe me, darling, there _were tales._" Reaver added the last bit with an amused purr.

"It couldn't have been serious." The Queen replied, turning away to gaze out the window, "Page's _past_ is none of my business anyway. It was petty of me to ask. We should drop this."

"And what of the _present_ that you both share? Was it not just days after the siege that you two expressed your feelings for each other after your coronation? I might even say Page had shared her bed with old Finn just the night before. In fact, I could even bet that she shared that same bed with him a good number of days into _your_ relationship."

"Our relationship was a secret in the beginning. I could forgive her for keeping a certain… front." The Queen said.

Reaver had to admit, he was growing annoyed by her apparent indifference to his tales. He shifted in his seat and drummed his fingertips across the surface of his cane. What would it take to tear his beloved Queen away from Page? What atrocities would Page have to commit to be discarded by _his_ rightful beloved? Would he have to resort to gunning her down in the coming days? It would not be easy—he had spent a good number of years attempting that very task when she organized the Resistance to fight back against his factories under Logan's reign. Page was quite the irritating bug to squash, he learned, before later giving up after Logan's fall.

"How many months has it been that she's kept you at arm's length?" Reaver asked, "How long will you wait around to consummate your love when she is so willing to return to those decrepit pits of Bowerstone… where, I might add, Finn resides?"

The Queen's motions were as swift as expected of the Hero of Brightwall—in the blink of an eye she had unsheathed the sword that had been placed at her side and its tip tickled the flesh over his throat. He, however, was not to be outdone, having drawn his pistol by reflex and pointing it directly between her eyes—one fatal shot that would be far faster than any strike she could attempt on him. She only glared at him in silence, breathing heavily as he smiled back at her and spoke with calm.

"Are you going to kill me, love? Do you really believe you can? Such a tyrant you truly are to so quickly slaughter a mere _messenger_!"

"I would merely rid the world of a repulsive liar."

Reaver chuckled, "You believe I would _lie_ to you? Go on, double check each fact I have shared with you. Roll the numbers around in that pretty little head of yours. Recognize that there was a gray area between the initiation of your relationship with Page and the supposed finale of her relationship with Finn. Think about all the times that she should have freely joined you in that cozy bed of yours but instead, chose to return the slum she came from, _without you_, no less… and that continues to this day."

"Pick your words carefully, Reaver. Should this carriage hit a particular rock in the road, I might just let my blade slip. It would be unfortunate if petty gossip were the last things to cross your lips."

"You really _do_ have a lust for blood, don't you, my dear?" Reaver grinned, "I don't believe I've ever seen eyes so hungry for death. Well, I might even say you want little more than to end me right here and now!"

"You have no idea how much pleasure it would bring me." The Queen all but hissed her words.

Reaver lowered his gun, not once letting that half-grin escape his face. With one fingertip, he guided the edge of her blade across his neck. Its sharp tip left the sting of red thread until it crossed over his collar and then stopped just over his heart. The Queen did not move, eying him with a mixture of hatred and confusion.

"Then let me grant you that." Reaver said.

The Queen said nothing, holding the blade where Reaver had left it—he could see the debate behind her fierce eyes. She had killed many bandits and villains in the past, she had fought wars and she was no stranger to the feel of her blade plunging into the heart of her enemy—he knew this well. It was not as though some innocence to murder were present to stop her.

"You _do_ want to kill me, do you not? Pierce my heart? Spill my blood? Then do it."

"You're mad…" The Queen whispered, her grip tightening on the blade's handle.

"Kill me."

"I…" The Queen stammered now, "…I have not been wronged… nor truly threatened… Not by you. I-I…"

"_Kill me_, Princess." He spoke with annoyed, almost bored tone.

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, "I won't. This would not even be murder. This is your sick parody of suicide. I will have no part of this!"

The Queen pulled the blade away but Reaver took a firm grip on it, not even wincing as the edges cut through his gloves and gouged into his palms. He held it steady against his heart and could only laugh, before shouting, before _commanding,_

"**Kill me**!"

A pothole of a sort or perhaps a rock in the road caused the carriage to lurch upward. The Queen screamed and turned away. The blade cut through fabric and stuck deep into the wood backing behind the carriage. Reaver fell silent as the Queen whimpered and hesitated to see the damage she had caused.

She opened her eyes when she heard him chuckle.

The blade grazed rather painfully across his side and stuck deep into a lucky place between his rib and his arm. It tore his favorite coat, he noted with slight annoyance, but the game had been played in full and she had both amused and disappointed him. There was little bleeding; only a minor gash on his flesh stained his clothes, but he could not care less. The look on the Queen's face was utterly priceless and he could not stop laughing.

"Perhaps next time we shall just play Samarkan Roulette? It might just save me a coat."

When he noticed the Queen's grip on her blade go limp and moisture begin to flood her eyes, stopping short of gushing over, his laughter trickled to a chuckle and then an abrupt end. The Queen squeezed her eyes shut and sheathed her sword, running a hand through tousled chestnut hair. Silence overtook the two of them, and for a time all he heard were the hooves of horses clattering on the earth and the shivering of her breath. At that moment he had never seen anything so fragile.

"…Princess? Dear, if you cry, you'll wrinkle."

He let her land a swift, hard fist against his gut—it forced a mixture of laughter and strained coughs from his lungs and would certainly leave a bruise. Such a ruffian the Queen was! It was not the first time, he mused, hunching over as she took a seat beside him and sucked in air through clenched teeth. Fond memories of her childhood came to mind—oh, no, it was hardly the first time he let her land a harmless blow. After all, Logan would have never let him hear the end of it if he upset the royal pain of a little sister.

"Don't _ever_ do that again!" The Queen growled, glaring through misty eyes.

"I was merely trying to cheer you up, my dear…" Reaver groaned… she had learned to hit far harder and faster somewhere between her hot-headed adolescence and that moment.

"I don't know what you do when you're upset, but I personally do not enjoy killing people."

"Noted…"

The Queen was silent as Reaver leaned back in his seat, ribs sore from both the blade's grazed touch and the Queen's fist. He did not look her way, despite the pleasant fact that she had moved closer to him. She had left her sheathed sword across from them. That was how much he knew she trusted him—not even Logan had ever left himself unarmed in Reaver's presence.

"Logan had this thing utterly coated in violet, didn't he?"

The Queen only nodded, gazing down at the floor. She had loved taking rides with Logan and Reaver, the few times that they had allowed her to accompany them outside of the castle. Reaver could still see her excited little frame perched by a window, gazing out at the surroundings with mesmerized eyes.

He let his eyes slip shut as though it would make the image more vivid in his memory. Logan had sat across from him, speaking of politics and taxes, of the growing unrest in Bowerstone that had been nothing at the time compared to what it would eventually be. All while his child sister squirreled over him from window to window, trying to get him to watch passing landmarks and the occasional hawk diving into the fields for a mouse. Millfields was such a long journey—by sunset, the girl had grown bored and seemed to regret accompanying them. It still amused him how impatient Logan would get with the child. With exchanged insults that could only be shared by siblings, the girl turned away from him with a loud, "Hmph!" and curled up beside Reaver, making him into her personal pillow of sorts. Logan would glare and Reaver would reply with a smirk, "I suppose she should learn early on, shouldn't she?"

Logan kicked him for that comment.

Her womanly form was heavier against his shoulder and arm. She leaned against him, a Queen now, far taller, lankier, and more voluptuous than he would have ever predicted. He had not realized how much he had missed those long trips with Logan and his invasive little sister. The way the Queen shifted beside him reminded him so.

"Please don't lie to me. I trust you, you know. Perhaps far more than I should."

Reaver folded his hands over the head of his cane, gazing at the black finish with absent attention, "I know, my dear."

"…and don't do something this stupid again, either."

Reaver laughed, "…hardly in my immediate plans."

* * *

"I do hope this is as important as you imply it to be, Carter." Reaver sighed, meeting the balding but powerful-armed foreman of the excavation site.

Without word, the Queen had led the way down that same, damp slope at the edge of the road. She had yet to even look at Reaver again since that little moment of swords and guns in the carriage. Instead, Reaver watched her gaze at the mountain as her chest rose and fell with an inaudible sigh.

"Please fill me in on what happened last night, Carter." The Queen said, meeting eyes with the man who now carried a very long and poorly-healed scar across his face. Both had a different air about them upon this second meeting, Reaver realized. A sullen atmosphere that was sure to spoil even the richest wine buzz.

"Yes, of course Your Majesty." Carter said, leading the way down a moist, grassy slope.

The Queen followed down the roadside shoulder and Reaver hesitated, hardly in the mood to get too much mud on his boots.

"Watch your step!" Carter called as the Queen stumbled in a small sink of mud.

Reaver watched with annoyance as Carter took her arm and, for what seemed like the first time in an eternity, she laughed. The Queen pulled her long, clumsy leg from the soft earth, as Carter explained, "It's a bit muddy from the showers."

"It would have been nice of you to warn me a little sooner!" The Queen smiled, brushing dirt from her striped stockings.

She looked back over her shoulder at Reaver, "Should I have you wait in the carriage, Reaver? I would so hate to hear you fuss after getting a little mud on your clothes."

It seemed her soured mood was beginning to improve.

"Oh, don't mind me, my Princess," Reaver answered, "...I've had far dirtier things tarnish my best coats."

The Queen cringed and turned away, shrugging.

"After we got word to cease the operations in Bowerstone Lake, we came here, following a bit of a breadcrumb trail of silver stemming from Silverpines of all places." Carter continued to lead the way as they reached a large mineshaft entrance at the foot of the slope.

A crewman rushed to Carter's side with a lantern and Carter dismissed him. Reaver caught up to the foreman and the Queen with only a slight slip in grace, stumbling at the most opportune moment to tumble and brush up against the Queen's backside.

She shot him a glare and he shrugged, "Simple gravity, my dear."

"Gather your equilibrium and get off, then."

"Oh, believe me, love, I do." Reaver smirked.

The Queen listened to Carter detail the operation, all information that Reaver knew first hand. After all, he had (albeit somewhat drunkenly) given the order to shift the mining operation to Mistpeak.

"Well, you would not believe what we found in the caverns. I think you're going to be thrilled, Your Majesty." Carter said with a breathy, nervous smile.

The foreman led the way down a series of wooden stairs and man-made tunnels. When the confining, dark passages opened up, a soft, gray light, almost as bright as day caused Reaver to replace the goggles that he had only just removed. He sighed out of annoyance and heard the Queen give a soft gasp of wonder. When he realized what they were looking at, he too, could have possibly made some utterance of awe.

A cave the size of a small, subterranean world had been hollowed out and the weight of the earth was held by some unseen god's hand. Tall buildings carved into the caves were adorned with a lacy, fragile design. Spires rose up and twisted until they thinned at the peaks, melding into the ceiling of the cave like majestic stalagmites. Every little building and every grand, temple-like structure was carved of white stone and silver with slivers of ornate designs climbing from every base to every summit. These designs all pulsed with the same silvery, moonlight glow as the large crystal at the topmost temple adjacent to the entrance from which they stood.

Amidst the rise and fall of roads and passages woven between the buildings were slender, pale skinned people cloaked in thick furs, all with clean-shaven heads and glowing eyes devoid of pupils. Their bodies were inked with the same fragile brush that painted the shimmering silver webs on every building and wall.

Some stopped what they were doing to turn in the direction of the newcomers. Others continued about their lives, paying little mind to the miners who had stopped, unable to proceed with the pillaging of the mountain's fruits.

"Who are they?" The Queen spoke quietly.

Carter shrugged, "Your guess is as good as mine, Your Majesty. We stumbled across a child at first, wandering the mines. Some lost little boy. He led us back here. …Looks like we weren't alone in this mountain after all. And it wasn't just the balverines. In fact, it seems that these people have been hunting the balverines and keeping them in check for a good many years."

The Queen's gaze moved over each spire and temple scattered across the caves as Carter continued to explain, "From what we understand, there has been a sort of war between these people and the balverines for quite some time."

"Do these people have a name?"

Carter called one forth one of the newer crewmen, "Darcy! Darcy, do you know what they called themselves?"

Darcy gave a reply in a language that sounded like a mix of old and northern Samarkan—some variant that was familiar to Reaver, yet heavily accented by regional difference. He had never heard it before, but had a vague idea of what it would translate to.

"…The People of Silver," Darcy added, "Silverfolk."

Carter nodded, "We've had Darcy acting as our translator. He grew up in Samarkand and knows the language like the back of his hand. Evidently, the people here speak a kind of variant that he has a pretty decent grasp on."

Darcy added, scratching the back of his head, "Luckily, the elder is a patient old lady. Everyone seems to refer to her as, 'Mum.' Looks like some words carry over no matter where you're from, eh?"

The Queen chuckled, "For where we are, it seems. But if these people have ties to Samarkand, then how could they possibly be here?"

"We're still trying to figure that out," Darcy said as the group began to make their way into the city via a series of stone steps and bridges. Reaver found himself rather enamored with the ornate silver patterns carved into the ivory-like railings and stepping stones. They reminded him of the delicate lace of a noble woman's chemise.

"Mum's right this way. She's pretty excited to meet you. Luckily, they don't appear to be too put off by us being here. They've known about us."

"Why have they spent all these years in silence, then?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Darcy shrugged and guided them through a gossamer web of fragile corridors and passageways. The people eyed them and kept away from the newcomers. Reaver had a feeling that this, "Mum" may have been the only one eager to meet Albion's best.

Carter joined them as they climbed a spiraling set of stairs that lead the way up a grand and slender spire. It rose up into a kind of second level at the highest point in the cavern, revealing a hidden temple that looked almost ivory at first glance. Through the highly decorated beams at the furthest end of the temple, he saw a bright light that pulsed with a silvery blue glow. It was like the lines of energy that carved through the body of a Will user he once knew by the name of Garth. That light was a pulsing sphere that seemed to spin on a gentle axis, catching the eyes of all who looked upon it and stealing away their attention from anything else.

He had almost been left behind, standing there in wonder as the Queen followed Carter and Darcy. He lifted his rosy goggles, not at all bothered by the soothing, moon-colored light. All around the cavern walls, similar ores pulsed with the sphere at the core. This must have been the ore that Carter had been talking about.

Sitting upon a throne of blue pillows was a pale, long-bodied woman with a head completely shaven clean save for one long white braid that hung from the top of her head. Will lines formed intricate patterns all across her slender body and she turned to them with eyes that glowed white like two miniature replicas of the sphere before her.

Carter announced their presence in the northern variant of the Samarkan language. A pause for thought crossed the pale matriarch's face before she nodded and turned to them in full. She bent her wiry body in a deep bow and then spoke with a hoarse but powerful voice.

"She says… ah," Darcy analyzed her words as best as he could, often repeating her nouns with similar-sounding Samarkan variants. Mum confirmed his point-blank translation and he continued, "She is pleased to meet the Queen of Albion and would like to apologize on behalf of her people for the, the secrecy and…"

Mum continued to speak and Darcy clarified before continuing, "…and silence. They have, er, I suppose, 'laid low,' hoping to avoid the coming darkness, despite the scriptures of Avo foretelling the coming… coming day where they would reveal themselves to their brethren of Albion."

"So she is aware of the Crawler…" The Queen said.

"Erm… Crawler?" Darcy asked.

Mum's eyes widened and she nodded, repeating the Queen's words, "_Cu-roll-ah!_"

As Mum continued to speak, Darcy affirmed her understanding and explained, "Yes, she says the Crawler is the same Darkness that they have been warned of. The role given to them by Avo was to keep the… the _'Fae'_ hidden safely should Albion's first line of defense fail. Your Highness, if I may be so bold to ask, is… is there a sort of threat looming on the horizon that your people might not know about?"

The Queen gave a hesitant nod, "…She speaks the truth. I have said little of it to my subjects and few others around me are aware of the very thing that Logan became a tyrant to try and prevent. The Crawler is a threat that I am told will spring forth from Aurora and drown Albion in darkness. It seems I was not the only one forewarned of this, nor am I the only hope this land has against it. For that I am glad."

Darcy and Carter exchanged unnerved glances.

"Y-You mean our days may be numbered, then?" Carter whispered.

The Queen shook her head and gave an answer that brought a bit of a smile to Reaver's face—she was beginning to sound more like the confident Queen he knew, "No. Hardly. This threat will stand no chance against Albion. Even less of a chance with our new found allies."

With a proffered hand, the Queen spoke, "I welcome you and your people into this kingdom with open arms. We must stand together against the coming threat."

Mum eyed the Queen carefully as Darcy did his best to translate. Mum nodded, smiled and extended her own hand to join with the Queen's. The two matriarchs exchanged a warm hand shake and a look of mutual understanding.

"If there is anything we can do to convince your people to mingle and share histories with us, then by all means. I can only liken this moment to discovering a long-lost sibling. I would love the people of Albion to know more about your people." Darcy continued to translate, gathering a bit of rhythm to his efforts. Reaver listened closely, commending Darcy for picking up on the Silverfolk's words in such short time. When Mum spoke, he too, understood a portion of her words. The language truly was remarkably similar to north Samarkan, but he had never bothered to become fluent in the dialect himself.

The Queen continued, "But why, might I ask, have you kept yourselves locked away?"

Mum spoke and Darcy explained, "The _Fae_, she says, is the reason they have kept silence and would like to keep silence, er, secrecy, until after the Darkness passes. It seems the _Fae_ is a source of great power and," Darcy paused for clarification and then nodded, continuing, "Will, she says. That which one desires most will inevitably be manifested by it."

Mum reached around her own, long neck and unclasped a pendant on a long, silver chain. She offered it to the Queen and spoke.

"As a show of faith, and in exchange for continued secrecy, she wants you to have a piece of the _Fae_. She says… she says it is a powerful relic that will bring to you what you wish for the most. Be it riches or love, good luck or wisdom, the stone will bring it to whoever asks it of its blessing."

The more Reaver looked at the illustrious, silver stone, the more he saw what seemed to be a gentle swirl at its translucent core. He had to have it—he _would_ have it!

The Queen shook her head, "Please, keep your gifts until after we have defeated our coming threat. I could not accept this from you until I've lived up to my duties as this kingdom's protector."

Darcy translated and Mum nodded as Reaver drummed his fingertips against his cane once more. How on earth could the girl be so stupidly, sickeningly _humble? _She may have just turned down a very powerful asset in battling this so-called coming threat!

Mum placed the relic on a nearby dais and spoke.

"Should you change your mind and accept this, it will be here waiting for you. Mum says she senses great purity within you and that only a… a heart like yours could bring the _Fae_ to its fullest potential. She senses your deepest wish and… the _Fae_ will be a precious tool… to… to that end."

A gentle smile crossed the Queen's lips, "Thank you."

Mum returned the smile.

Their discussion continued for a painful hour that bored Reaver more by the minute. He took little interest in the history that the old, glowing hag shared with the Queen. The Auroran leader, Kalin had been more interesting in her sleep-inducing methods of speech!

By the time the Queen organized for them all to take their leave, Reaver could have danced with joy. The entire time, he had eyed the relic sitting upon the dais, thinking about a way to make it his own. Had the Queen not been so obstructively present, it would have been easy enough to just shoot the old hag and walk away with that precious stone. Hell, he could even arrange to have the large, subterranean moon behind her mined out and made into all sorts of wonderful little trinkets, or perhaps—if it were a formation of Will energy—powerful weapons. What sort of destructive power could that beast of a stone behind Mum hold? Albion would become unstoppable.

Reaver watched the Queen and the withered old matriarch exchange bows and gestures of all the warm, fuzzy, diplomacy that utterly nauseated him. The Queen was far too much of a bleeding heart for her own good.

"So when do we extract these glowing little tramps, my Princess?" Reaver caught up to the Queen, eying a particularly shapely Silverfolk woman in a midriff-revealing fur dress. As exotic and rather un-erotic as many of them were, he had to admit, the few that stood out and caught his eye did a good job of just that.

"Reaver. I've come to a decision. If you'll excuse my going back on my word, but it seems that there is an agreement that I regret to break with you."

Reaver clenched his fist around the tip of the cane and forced a grin, "E-excuse me? Ah, aha, so you decide to wield that matriarchal power, now finally? After dragging me here for my input that you ultimately did not even hear?"

"Forgive me for going back on my earlier decision. In fact, forgive me for dragging you here all together." The Queen said, casting him a glare, "But these people are not _glowing little tramps_, but they are inhabitants of Albion just like you and I. This is their home and their divine duty to protect that which Avo has given them. The people of the Silvercaves will go undisturbed and I would like to have you pull your men out within the next few days, complete with their equipment. I will personally have your mining team compensated for the breach in their contracts."

"Well," Reaver sighed, forcing an irate and insincere smile, "It seems I cannot argue with the Queen. I'm rather pleased to see that the tyrannical streak has not skipped you entirely. I do say, you should exercise it more often. It's rather fetching on you."

The Queen ignored him, walking even faster after Carter.

Reaver kept a good distance behind until he was walking side-by-side with Darcy.

"The people here are secretive but do not seem to have issues regarding trust, do they?" Reaver asked.

Darcy shrugged, "I've been up all night with them for the last day or so. They are very welcoming. Shy and introverted sorts, but they don't hesitate to trust us."

"What silly folk, the Silverfolk." Reaver laughed.

Lowering his voice, Reaver said, "I want that relic. Whatever the hell the old bat called it… and there is a very large sum of gold in it for you if you can do this for me."

Darcy looked at Reaver and grinned—the translator was just as competent as Reaver had hoped.

* * *

**~ Half-way point, just about... ~**

I can't believe I'm already seven chapters in! It's not entirely the half-way point but it's a bit close for a fifteen-chapter story. I appreciate the kind comments and the honest critique, all of it helps me to look at the story objectively and polish what works and refine what doesn't. For that, I thank you guys for your input like whoa. I love you all! Unfortunately, this time, I don't have an illustration right away, but keep an eye on my deviantart page or and I should be posting some chapter seven artwork in the near future. School's started and it's cut severely into my geekery time, haha. But I'm pressing on all the same. ^^

It feels like it's _about time_ that the Queen stop giving Reaver the cold shoulder. XD

Until next time, my fellow Reaverphiles!

Love,  
K0USAGI


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